The Heal-All

Dear blossom of the wayside kin,
Whose homely, wholesome name
Tells of a potency within
To win thee country fame!

The sterile hillocks are thy home,
Beside the windy path;
The sky, a pale and lonely dome,
Is all thy vision hath.

Thy unobtrusive purple face
Amid the meagre grass
Greets me with long-remembered grace,
And cheers me as I pass.

And I, outworn by petty care,
And vexed with trivial wrong,
I heed thy brave and joyous air
Until my heart grows strong.

A lesson from the Power I crave
That moves in me and thee,
That makes thee modest, calm, and brave,--
Me restless as the sea.

Thy simple wisdom I would gain,--
To heal the hurt Life brings,
With kindly cheer, and faith in pain,
And joy of common things.