| contributor

“ Blows upward from the south, and wooes us sweet,
And since spring is abroad, come, let us greet
The beauty of her presence everywhere.
Come to the forest, where the oak-trees stand
Like giant patriarchs through the changing year,
The autumn leaves are rustling pale and sere
Among their branches, — yet a flowery hand
I see beneath them; ah! what secrets sweet,
And little tenderest blossoms do unfold
Here in this spot beside the oak-trees old,
Like fair young children, tired from their play,
Who seek for shelter, I behold to-day
A vision of wind-flowers blowing at their feet! ”