Trifolium Repens

Upon the sloping hill side
Where the morning shadows fall,
The cousin to the partridge
Whistles out his "bob white" call.

His mate hides in seclusion,
Where the clover foliages twines,
And the aromatic blossoms
Dangle round the tangled vines.

The busy bees craw buzzing round,
In search of viscous honey,
They never fly on cloudy days
But only work when sunny.

To pluck a dew kissed nose-gay,
Of purple, pink, or white,
Or spot a four leaf clover,
Nestled almost out of sight-

Is a homespun type of pleasure
That stimulates your soul,
And makes you juvenescent
On a sprightly morning stroll.

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