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GRASS Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; By the dusty roadside, On the sunny hillside, Close by the noisy brook, In every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; All round the open door, Where here sit the aged poor; Here where the children play, In the bright and merry May, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; In the noisy city street My pleasant face you'll meet, Cheering the sick at heart Toiling his busy part,-- Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; You cannot see me coming, Nor hear my low sweet humming; For in the starry night, And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the flowers In summer's pleasant hours; The gentle cow is glad, And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; When you're numbered with the dead In your still and narrow bed, In the happy spring I'll come And deck your silent home,-- Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of praise Most joyfully I raise To Him at whose command I beautify the land, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. Sarah Roberts Boyle [1812-1869] A SONG THE GRASS SINGS The violet is much too shy, The rose too little so; I think I'll ask the buttercup If I may be her beau. When winds go by, I'll nod to her And she will nod to me, And I will kiss her on the cheek As gently as may be. And when the mower cuts us down, Together we will pass, I smiling at the buttercup, She smiling at the grass. Charles G. Blanden [1857- THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet: No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear. By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose. Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died--nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom; Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power Shall leave no ve
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