Wayside Flowers

Pluck not the wayside flower, It is the traveller’s dower; A thousand passers-by

Its beauties may espy, May win a touch of blessing From Nature’s mild caressing. The sad of heart perceives

A violet under leaves

Like sonic fresh-budding hope; The primrose on the slope A spot of sunshine dwells, And cheerful message tells Of kind renewing power; The nodding bluebell’s dye Is drawn from happy sky. Then spare the wayside flower!

It is the traveller’s dower.