INDEX OP FIRST 
LINES. 
547 
Wild blossoms of the moorland, ye are very dear 
PAGE 
to me. 
With drooping bells of clearest blue 
9fl* 
Withering—withering—all are witherin'* 
Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you 
true. 
’tis 
Yet one smile more departing, distant sun. 
You ask what flowers I love the best 
... W. C. Bryant . 
