It slips along the laurel grove
And down the hill, intent to rove,
And crooks an arm of shadow cool
Around a willow-silvered pool.
I never travel very far
Beyond the pool where willows are:
There is a shy and native grace
That hovers all about the place,
And resting there I hardly know
Just where it was I meant to go,
Contented like the road that dozes
In panniered gown of briar roses.
Grace Hazard Conkling
THE WILD ROSE
Summer has crossed the fields, and where she trod
Violets bloom; the dancing wind-flowers nod,
And daisies blossom all across the sod.
She passed the brook, and in their glad surprise
The first forget-me-nots smiled at the skies
And caught the very color of her eyes.
But, sleeping in the meadow-land, she pressed
The dear wild rose so closely to her breast
It stole her heart—and so she loves it best.
Charles Buxton Going