WILD FLOWERS. 35 
An Extract. 
I stood tiptoe upon a little hill, 
The air was cooling, and so very still, 
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, 
Their scanty-leaved, and finely tapering stems, 
Had not yet lost their starry diadems 
Caught from the early sobbing of the mom. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, 
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 
Bom of the very sigh that silence heaves: 
For not the faintest motion could be seen 
Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green. 
There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, 
To peer about upon variety; 
Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim, 
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; 
To picture out the quaint and curious bending 
Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: 
