Foxgloves.

Foxgloves.
Some of my most delightful days through life
Were spent where Foxgloves tower’d in all their pride,
Along some pleasant mountains grassy side,
Or rustic road[1] or valley. All was rife
With sounds and sights of Summer. Even now, 5
In fancy they are with me, as I sit,
Drinking in ancient lore or modern wit,
Before my Winter’s fire; whose cheerful glow
Gladdens the long dark night. What, though as food
The plant be poison, its fine fairy bells 10
Are beautiful to look upon; and these knells
From them the death-note of Disease,—for good
Is Digitalis when ‘t is used aright:
Hence is the Foxglove pure in the great Maker’s sight.

George Markham Tweddell
[Sonnets on Trees and Flowers, p. 29]
[[1]
Alternative ‘rural road’]