THE ROADSIDE FLOWER.
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1 ask not what the grabbed name

 Thou hast in musty book; feel thou wouldst the question blame, Blue flower, with thy sweet look. I'll ask that playful rosy child,

 That stopped to pluck thee there, What name she gave thee when she smiled, And placed thee in her hair. Her infant words shall frame for me

 A name of sweeter tone Than conscience ever gave to thee,

 To mark thee for her own. A name a mothers lips have taught

 To call her childhood's flower; A name with thoughts and feelings fraught, Of memory's brightest hour. Still may 1t wake, sweet child, as now,

 That smile when years have fled, And left their wrinkles on thy brow,

 Their silver on thy head. Still may that name in memory dwell,

 Loved guardian of thy heart, And throw OCT vice holy spell,

 Recalling what thou art.