WILD FLOWERS. 59 
A dweller in a common path, 
With myriads of its kind, 
Yet doth its unpretending grace 
A oneness bring to mind ; 
Like household charities that seem 
So native to the heart, 
That we forget, in seeing all, 
That each is fair apart. 
We call thee Innocence, sweet one, 
And well it thee beseems, 
For thou art cherished in the heart, 
With childhood’s sinless dreams. 
Flowers. 
Ye are the stars of earth—ye glorious things! 
And as your skyey kindred gem the night, 
So ye, with hues like rainbows, yet more bright, 
Gladden the day; and, as each sunburst flings 
