Within this pleasant wood, beside the lane,
Let's sit, and rest us from the burning sun,
And hide us in the leaves, and entertain
An hour away;—to watch the wood-brook run
Through heaps of leaves, drop dribbling after drop,
Pining for freedom, till it climbs along
In eddying fury o'er the foamy top;
And then loud laughing sings its whimpling song,
Kissing the misty dewberry by its side,
With eager salutations, and in joy;
Making the flag-leaves dance in graceful pride,
Giving and finding joy.—Here we employ
An hour right profitably, thus to see
Life may meet joys where few intruders be.
Observe the flowers around us, how they live,
Not only for themselves, as we may feel,
But for the joy which they to others give;
For Nature never will her gifts conceal
From those who love to seek them.—Here amid
These trees, how many blooms disclose their pride;
From the unthinking rustic only hid,
Who never turns him from the road aside,
To look for beauties which he values not.
It gives one greater zest to feel the joys
We meet in this sweet solemn-suited spot;
And with high ecstacy one's mind employs,
To bear the worst that fickle Life prepares,
Finding her sweets are common as her cares.
In every trifle something lives to please
Or to instruct us. Every weed and flower
Heirs Beauty as a birth-right, by degrees
Of more or less, though Taste alone hath power
To see and value what the rest pass by.
This common Dandelion—mark how fine
Its hue!—the shadow of the Day's proud eye
Glows not more rich of gold:—that nettle there,
Trod down by careless rustics every hour—
Search but its slighted blooms, kings cannot wear
Robes prankt with half the splendour of a flower
Pencilled with hues of workmanship divine,—
Bestowed to simple things, denied to power,
And sent to gladden hearts as low as mine.