Unloved,
the sun-flower, shining fair,
Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
And many a rose-carnation feed
With
summer spice the humming air;
Unloved,
by many a sandy bar,
The brook shall babble down the plain,
At noon or when the lesser wain
Is
twisting round the polar star;
Uncared
for, gird the windy grove,
And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
Or into silver arrows break
The
sailing moon in creek and cove;
Till
from the garden and the wild
A fresh association blow,
And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar
to the stranger’s child;
As
year by year the labourer tills
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
And year by year our memory fades
From
all the circle of the hills.