OUR sweet autumnal western-scented wind

  Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower,

In all the blooming waste it left behind,

As that the sweet-brier yields it; and the shower

Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower

One-half so lovely; yet it grows along

The poor girl's pathway, by the poor man's door,

Such are the simple folks-it dwells among;

And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouched stand

Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;

Its sweetness all is of my native laud;

And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate

Among the perfumes which the rich and great

Buy from the odors of the spicy East.

You love your flowers and plants, and will you slight

The little four-leaved rose that I love best,

That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?