Wildflowers.
In their due seasons all so freely given
Alike to rich and poor—good gifts from Heaven
To help to cheer us in our dullest hours—
I fain would use such weak poetic powers 5
As Nature has endow’d me with, to sing
Their uses and their beauty, and thus bring
These few poor Sonnets. Would we all were wooers
Of everything that’s beautiful, where’er
It comes to bless us! for, on every hand 10
Our North of England is a favour’d land
With the grand gift of Wildflowers all the year.
We all did love them in our infancy:
To let that love die out seems hopeless idiotcy.[1]
George Markham Tweddell
[Sonnets on Trees and Flowers, p. 64]
[[1] sic]
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