22 WILD FLOWERS. 
Are lying in their lowly beds,— 
With the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, 
But the cold November rain 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, 
The lovely ones again. 
The wind-flower and the violet, 
They perished long ago, 
And the briar-rose and the orchis died, 
Amid the summer glow; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, 
And the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, 
In autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, 
As falls the plague on men:— 
And the brightness of their smile was gone, 
From upland glade and glen. 
And now, when comes the calm, mild day, 
As still such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee 
From out their winter home; 
