And that pale gem the wind flower, falsely named,
Here greet the cautious search—less beautiful
Than poets feign, though lovely to the eye.
These with their modest forms so delicate,
And breath of perfume, send th’ unwilling heart
And all its aspirations, to the source
Of Life and Light. Nor woodland sounds are wanting,
Such as the mind to that soft melancholy
The poet feels, lull soothingly. The winds
Are playing with the forest tops in glee,