Crimson clover I discover By the garden gate, And the bees about her hover, But the robins wait. Sing, robins, sing, Sing a roundelay,— 'Tis the late… - Dora Read Goodale

I love the fair lilies and roses so gay,
They are rich in their pride and their splendor;
But still more do I love to wander away
To the meadow so sweet,
Where down at my feet,
The harebell blooms modest and tender.

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!