Classic Poem

And the name brings back those kindly hills
And the drowsing life so new to me;
And the welcome that those purple blossoms
With their tiny trumpets blew to me.

Stout and tall, they raised their clustered heads,
Leaping, as a lusty fellow would,
Through the lowlands, down the twisting cowpaths;
Running past the green and yellow wood.

How they come again—those rambling roads;
And the weeds' wild jewels glowing there.
Richer than a Paradise of flowers
Was that bit of pasture growing there.

Weeds—the very names call up those faint
Half-forgotten smells and cries again. . .
Weeds—like some old charm, I say them over,
And the rolling Berkshires rise again:

Basil, Boneset, Toadflax, Tansy,
Weeds of every form and fancy;
Milk-weed, Mullein, Loose-strife, Jewel-weed,
Mustard, Thimble-weed, Tear-thumb (a cruel weed).
Clovers in all sorts—Nonesuch, Melilot;
Staring Buttercups, a bold and yellow lot.
Daisies rioting about the place
With black-eyed Susan and Queen Anne's Lace. . .

Names—they blossom into colored hills;
Hills whose rousing beauty flows to me.
And with all its soundless, purple trumpets,
Lo, the Joe-Pyeweed still blows to me!