110 WILD FLOWERS. 
Great Bindweed. 
The lark sings loud, and the throstle’s song 
Is heard from the depth of the hawthorn’s dale; 
And the rush of the streamlet the vales among, 
Doth blend with the sighs of the whispering gale. 
But this little dower the road beside, 
Speaks low to the mind of the passer-by; 
While the whispering wind in his airy ride, 
Says, look to that flower, the hedge-row’s pride, 
She doeth her day’s task lovingly. 
The Goat’s-Beard. 
To lay one down 
Upon the thymy bank where wild flowers grow, 
And the tall corn is rustling in the breeze, 
Till Flora’s clock, the goat’s-beard, tells the hour, 
And closing, says ,—“ Arise! the noon is come.” 
