WILD FLOWERS. 
Meadow Saffron. 
Methinks a voice thus answers low 
By Hollwell’s deep and silent flow, 
For not another sound is heard, 
From wandering bee or joyous bird, 
And far and wide, o’er dale and hill, 
Deep silence holds her vigils still. 
O list my words, vain erring man! 
For thus the gentle voice began, 
Who thinks, because the sun is low, 
And deep and dark the torrents flow, 
And summer’s last loved rose is gone, 
And warbling birds from dale or bourn, 
That I, a lone and orphan flower, 
Child of this drear and joyless hour, 
CJpspringing in the wild mead lone, 
From whence all other flowers are gone, 
Must sink before the chastening blast, 
When murky clouds are gathering fast. 
Ah, no ! nor stern winds piping loud, 
Nor sleet, nor rain, from driving cloud, 
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