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ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 
COLUMBINE. 
S WEET flower of the golden horn, 
Thy beauty passeth praise ! 
-But why should spring thy gold adorn 
Most meet for summer days ? 
Well may the mighty sycamore 
His shelter o’er thee throw, 
And spring-time winds, which elsewhere roar. 
Breathe gently as they go. 
Henry H. Rusby. 
CLOVER. 
C RIMSON clover I discover 
By the garden gate, 
And the bees about her hover. 
But the robins wait. 
POPPY. 
Sing, robins, sing. 
Sing a roundelay,— 
’Tis the latest flower of Spring 
Coming with the May ! 
Dora Read Goodale. 
I SING the Poppy ! The frail snowy weed ! A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. 
The flower of Mercy! that within its heart For happy hours the Rose will idly blow— 
Doth keep “a drop serene ” for human need, The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe. 
Mary A. Barr. 
Yes, sing the song of the orange tree, 
With its leaves of velvet green ; 
With its luscious fruit of sunset hue, 
The fairest that ever were seen ; 
Y r et, no — not words for they 
But half can tell love’s feeling ; 
Sweet flowers alone can say 
What passion fears revealing. 
The grape may have its bacchanal verse, 
To praise the fig we are free ; 
But homage I pay to the queen of all. 
The glorious orange tree. 
J. K. Hoyt. 
A once bright rose’s withered leaf, 
A tow’ring lily broken,— 
Oh these may paint a grief 
No words could e’er have spoken. 
Moore. 
What are the flowers of Scotland, 
All others that excel ? 
The lovely flowers of Scotland, 
All others that excel! 
The thistle’s purple bonnet, 
And bonny heather-bell, 
O they’re the flowers of Scotland 
All others that excel ! 
Hogg. 
The violet loves a sunny bank, 
The cowslip loves the lea ; 
The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
But I love — thee. 
Bayard Taylor. 
