Meet for the scene alone. At ev’ry step,
Some beauteous combination of soft hues,
Less brilliant though than those which deck the fields,
The eye attracts. Mosses of softest green,
Creep round the trunks of the decayed trees;
And mosses, hueless as the mountain snow,
Inlay the turf. Here, softly peeping forth,
The eye detects the little violet
Such as the city boasts—of paler hue,
But fragrant more. The simple forest flower,