To look on the lovely flower.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
The larch has donned its rosy plumes,
And hastes its emerald beads to string:
The warblers now are on the wing,
Across the pathless ocean glooms.
Through tender grass and violet blooms
I move along and gaily sing.
—RICHARD WILTON.
Violets stir and arbutus wakes,