Bright flower, whose home is every where
A pilgrim bold in Nature’s care,
And oft, the long year through, the heir
Of joy or sorrow.
Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,
Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough!
And wherefore? Man is soon deprest;
A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,
Or on his reason.
But thou would’st teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind;
A hope for times that are unkind,
And every season.