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FOXGLOVES AND FERN.
The Foxgloves and the Fern,
How gracefully they grow
With grand old oaks above them,
And wavy grass below!
The stately trees stand round
Like columns fair and high,
And the spreading branches bear
A glorious canopy
Of leaves, that rustling wave
In the whispering summer air
And gaily greet the sunbeams
That are falling brightly there.
The miser-leaves!—they suffer
Not a gleam to twinkle through,
And in the Foxglove's hairy cup,
At noonday, drops of dew
Are hanging round like tears
Of sorrow, that the sun
Gives to other flowers his kisses
But to her soft lips not one—
Yet are they wondrous sweet,
As the honey-bee knows well,
When murmuring all busily,
Hid in each purple bell
