There might be more in this bright day

Than my poor spirit thrills.

The elder coppice, banks of blooms;

The spicewood brush; the field

Of tumbled clover, and perfumes

Hot, weedy pastures yield.

The old rail-fence, whose angles hold

Bright briar and sassafras;

Sweet, priceless wildflowers, blue and gold,

Starred through the moss and grass.