 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
63
CLOVER BLOSSOMS.
I've read of roses till I tire of them,Of daffodils and myrtle-blossoms too,—
I'd rather have a fresh, sweet, home-like gem
Like this I hold, unhackneyed, pure and new;—
My taste is rude;—I like not hot-house flowers,—
Art, more than nature, breathes in their perfume;
They are unlike these children of the showers
As carmine is unlike a natural bloom,
Poor exiles, city-born and city-bred,
They tell no tales of nature's dewy bowers;—
Were I a bride, this morning to be wed,
I'd slight those everlasting “orange-flowers,”
Of which, since Eve was bride, we've heard and read,
And loop the bridal veil with clover-blooms instead!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |