p hick weed—Rendezvous, 
! will no one sing thee? Like thy 
bard 
Lowly, and little noted though thou art, 
Creeping o’er fallows with thy pallid sward, 
'Thou in my humble strains shall claim a part. 
When summer flowers to churlish autumn yield, 
And gaunt December Lends the leafless groves, 
Thou to the small birds trooping o’er the field 
Art food—the stimulus to future loves. 
Henceforth let none despise thee for thy birth, 
For powers medicinal in thee are found ; 
And haughty men shall own thy sterling worth, 
And crave thine aid to cool the anguished wound : 
The lordly oak may lift his head on high, 
Thou still will creep beneath the self-same sky. 
Robert Millhouse , 
Flowers are not flowers unto the poet’s eyes, 
Their beauty thrill's him with an inward sense ; 
He knows that outward seemings are but lies, 
Or, at the most, but earthly shadows, whence 
The soul that looks within for truth may guess 
The presence of some wondrous heavenliness. 
J. R. Lowell. 
