Not idly do I stray
At prime, where far the mountain ridges run,
And note, along my way,
Each flower that opens in the early sun;
Or gather blossoms by the valley's spring,
When the sun sets and dancing insects sing.

Each has her moral rede,
Each of the gentle family of flowers;
And I with patient heed,
Oft spell their lessons in my graver hours.
The faintest streak that on a petal lies,
May speak instruction to initiate eyes.

And well do poets teach
Each blossom's charming mystery; declare,
In clear melodious speech,
The silent admonitions pencilled there;
And from the Love of Beauty, aptly taught,
Lead to a higher good, the willing thought.