Here's the speedwell's sapphire blue: Was there anything more true To the vernal season still? Here it decks the bank alone, Where the milkmaid throws a stone At noon, to cross the rapid, flooded rill. Here the cowslip, chill with cold, On the rushy bed behold, It looks for sunshine all the day. Here the honey bee will come, For he has no sweets at home; Then quake his weary wing and fly away. And here are nameless flowers, Culled in cold and rawky hours For my Mary's happy home. They grew in murky blea, Rush fields and naked lea, But suns will shine and pleasing Spring will come. THE LOST ONE I seek her in the shady grove, And by the silent stream; I seek her where my fancies rove, In many a happy dream; I seek her where I find her not, In Spring and Summer weather: My thoughts paint many a happy spot, But we ne'er meet together. The trees and bushes speak my choice, And in the Summer shower I often hear her pleasant voice, In many a silent hour: I see her in the Summer brook, In blossoms sweet and fair; In every pleasant place I look My fancy paints her there. The wind blows through the forest trees, And cheers the pleasant day; There her sweet voice is sure to be To lull my cares away. The very hedges find a voice, So does the gurgling rill; But still the object of my choice Is lost and absent still. THE TELL-TALE FLOWERS And has the Spring's all glorious eye No lesson to the mind? The birds that cleave the golden sky-- Things to the earth resigned-- Wild flowers that dance to every wind-- Do they no memory leave behind? Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers, That bloom in wood and glen, Brings Spring to me in Winter's hours, And childhood's dreams again. The primrose on the woodland lea Was more than gold and lands to me. The violets by the woodland side Are thick as they could thrive; I've talked to them with childish pride As things that were alive: I find them now in my distress-- They seem as sweet, yet valueless. The cowslips on the meadow lea, How have I run for them! I looked with wild and childish glee Upon each golden gem: And when they bowed their heads so shy I laughed, and thought they danced for joy. And when a man, in early years, How sweet they used to come, And give me tales of smiles and tears, And thoughts more dear than home: Secrets which words would then reprove-- They told the names of early love. The primrose turned a babbling flower Within its sweet recess: I blushed to see its secret bower, And turned her name to bless. The violets said the eyes were blue: I loved, and did they tell me true? The cowslips, blooming everywhere, My heart's own thoughts could steal: I nip't them that they should not hear: They smiled, and would reveal; And o'er each meadow, right or wrong, They sing the name I've worshipped long.