O green is the turf in the wildwood now,
And my spirit flies from the dwellings of men,
Where the wind blows soft through the cedar's bough,
And the voice of the streamlet is heard from the glen.
This dim-lighted chamber I long to resign
For my cherish'd retreat, 'neath the wide-spreading tree.
Through the long, long hours of day I pine
For the breath of the flowers and the hum of the bee.
No, not for me are the beauties of spring,
Nor the zephyr that sighs in the cedar's bough;
The birds of the forest all sweetly may sing,
But not for my ear is their music now.
Yet, merciful Father! I will not complain;
My hopes are all centred on heaven and Thee;
I know that thy grace will my spirit sustain—
I ask not for more—'tis sufficient for me.
THE USE OF FLOWERS[[1]].
[Footnote 1: [See the frontispiece.]]
![[See the frontispiece.]](#1599913520407727659_0005.jpg.id-3877539795671938275.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
"Oh, yes! very sweet. And here is the dearest little bud I ever saw. I took it from the sweet-briar bush in the lane. Put that, too, in cousin Mary's hair."
Little Florence, seeing what was going on, was soon, also, at work upon Mary's hair, that, in a little while, was covered with buds and blossoms.