Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest

Or, Bide Thou Where The Poppy Blows With Windflowers Fail And Fair.

Alas! To Seize The Moment When The Heart Inclines To Heart, And Press A Suit With Passion, Is Not A Woman's Part. If Man Come Not To Gather The Roses Where They Stand, They Fade Among Their Foliage, They Cannot Seek His Hand.

When April Winds Grew Soft, The Maple Burst Into A Flush Of Scarlet Flowers. The Tulip Tree, High Up, Opened In Airs Of June Her Multitude Of Golden Chalices To Humming-birds And Silken-wing'd Insects Of The Sky.

The Country Ever Has A Lagging Spring, Waiting For May To Call Its Violets Forth, And June Its Roses-showers And Sunshine Bring, Slowly, The Deepening Verdure O'er The Earth; To Put Their Foliage Out, The Woods Are Slack, And One By One The Singing-birds Come Back. Within The City's Bounds The Time Of Flowers Comes Earlier. Let A Mild And Sunny Day, Such As Full Often, For A Few Bright Hours, Breathes Through The Sky Of March The Airs Of May, Shine On Our Roofs And Chase The Wintry Gloom- And Lo! Our Borders Glow With Sudden Bloom.

The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying In Their Lowly Beds.