Pluck not the wayside flower,
It is the traveller's dower;
A thousand passers-by Its beauties may espy,
May win a touch of blessing From Nature's mild caressing.
The sad of heart perceives A violet under leaves Like sonic fresh-budding hope;
The primrose on the slope A spot of sunshine dwells,
And cheerful message tells Of kind renewing power;
The nodding bluebell's dye Is drawn from happy sky.
Then spare the wayside flower!
It is the traveller's dower.
