I love to loiter, towards the end of May,
Among the hedge-rows, in some rustic spot;
Where hands of Innovation, thanks, have not
Curtail’d each bush; for then they are gay
With glorious greenery, and from every spray 5
Of Hawthorn comes a perfume to delight
The sense of smell, give pleasure to the sight,—
A something to remember well for aye!
“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,”
As Keats most truly sang. Who can forget 10
The fragrance of the Hawthorn smelt as yet
No carking cares had ever come to sever
Our hearts from Nature’s holy ministry?
The best of all our teachers ever she!
George Markham Tweddell
[Sonnets on Trees and Flowers, p. 62] Also published in
The Masonic Review, Cincinnati, Ohio, U.S., May, 1892.
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