All the woodland path is broken

I love the fair lilies and roses so gay, They are rich in their pride and their splendor; But still more do I love to wander away To the meadow so sweet, Where down at my feet, The harebell blooms modest and tender.

Crimson clover I discover By the garden gate, And the bees about her hover, But the robins wait. Sing, robins, sing, Sing a roundelay,—

And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red.

Whence is yonder flower so strangely bright? Would the sunset's last reflected shine Flame so red from that dead flush of light? Dark with passion is its lifted line, Hot, alive, amid the falling night.

The Autumn wood the aster knows, The empty nest, the wind that grieves, The sunlight breaking thro' the shade, The squirrel chattering overhead, The timid rabbits lighter tread Among the rustling leaves.

Vermouth always makes me brilliant unless it makes me idiotic, but we'll hope for the best.