The Anemone

Thy charm, pale, modest, timid one,
Is this, that thou dost ever shun
The public walk, and to the sun
Dost show an open heart,
Which does not fear the brightest ray,
That's darted from the eye of day,
Will aught of secret stain betray,
Or find a double part.

And thou hast never been beguiled
To quit the simple, quiet wild,
Where nature placed her modest child
To worship her alone.
Thou dost not ask the brow of toil
To shed its costly dew, to spoil
The bed of flee, untortured soil,
Which thou hast made thine own.

And now, if I were hence to take
Thee, root and stem, it would but make
Thee homesick—and the spell would break,
That's round the desert gem.
So, I will set me down and look
On thy fair leaves, my little book,
To read the name of Him, who took
Such care in forming them!