And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red. - Dora Read Goodale

Whence is yonder flower so strangely bright?
Would the sunset's last reflected shine
Flame so red from that dead flush of light?
Dark with passion is its lifted line,
Hot, alive, amid the falling night.

The Autumn wood the aster knows, The empty nest, the wind that grieves,
The sunlight breaking thro' the shade,
The squirrel chattering overhead,
The timid rabbits lighter tread
Among the rustling leaves.

All the woodland path is broken By warm tints along the way, And the low and sunny slope Is alive with sudden hope
When there comes the silent token Of an April day,— Blue hepatica!