WILD FLOWERS. 25 
There is many a sweet and blooming maid, 
Who will soon as dimly die. 
To the Trailing Arbutus. 
Thou comest when Spring her coronal weaves, 
And ihou hidest thyself mid dead strewn leaves,— 
Where the young grass lifts its tender blade, 
Thy home and thy resting-place are made; 
And, in the spot of thy lowly birth, 
Unseen, thou bloomest, like modest worth: 
The richest jewel, the rarest gem 
May never glow in a diadem. 
What knowest thou of the glittering pride 
Of vales that blush, like a jewelled bride— 
When the pomp of roses and gilded flowers 
Springs mid the falling of Summer showers? 
What can’st thou know of those breathing skies, 
Adorned with the diamonds of Paradise— 
Or the sunrise crown, or the golden flow 
Of noontide streams, in their deep warm glow ? 
