Forest Flowers

Ye simple weeds, that make the desert gay,
Disdained of all, e'en by the youngster's eye,
Who lifts his stick, a weapon in his play,
And lops your blossoms as he saunters by,
In mockery of merriment! — Yet I
Hail you, as favourites of my early days;
And every year, as 'mid your haunts I lie,
Some added pleasure claims my lonely gaze: —
Star-pointed thistle, with its ruddy flowers;
Wind-waving rush, left to bewildered ways,
Shunning the scene which culture's toil devours;
Ye thrive in silence where I glad recline,
Sharing with finer blooms Spring's gentle showers,
That show ye're prized by better taste than mine.