The Heather, or Ling.
Gleaming in purple pride upon the moors;
Nor would I wish to live more happy hours
Than have been mine among its blossoming,—
Whilst bees with honey-laden thighs flew by, 5
Bearing the rifled sweets to their far cells.
He who loves Nature truly, ever dwells
’Midst sights and sounds of beauty ever nigh.
Even in Winter, they seem with us still,
In Memory’s chambers, with a magic power 10
Recalling songs of birds heard in some hour
Long since departed, and views from many a hill
We ne’er may climb again: and purple Ling
Seems once again to bear its welcome offering.
George Markham Tweddell
[Sonnets on Trees and Flowers, p. 30]
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