WILD FLOWERS. 
119 
Take hue ftora that wherefor I long, 
Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, 
Not satisfied with hoping—but divine. 
Violet! dear violet! 
Thy blue eyes are only wet 
With joy and love of Him who sent thee 
And for the fulfilling sense 
Of that glad obedience 
Which made thee all that nature meant thee! 
The Walk. 
Flowers of all hue are struggling into glow, 
Along the blooming fields; yet their sweet strife 
Melts into one harmonious concord. Lo, 
The path allures me through the pastoral green, 
And the wide world of fields! The laboring bee 
Hums round me; and on hesitating wing 
O’er beds of purple clover quiveringly 
Hovers the butterfly. Save these, all life 
Sleeps in the glowing sunlight’s steady sheen— 
