Now all the flowers that ornament the grass,
Wherever meadows are and placid brooks,
Must fall—the “glory of the grass” must fall.
Year after year I see them sprout and spread,—
The golden, glossy, tossing buttercups,
The tall, straight daisies and red clover globes,
The swinging bellwort and the blue-eyed bent,
With nameless plants as...