Classic Poem

The rank luxuriant Flag that skirts the brooks
With such high notions oer his fellows looks
That makes the traveller tho in haste he comes
To stop & gaze upon their golden bloom
While on its banks the butterworts blue eye
Shaped like the violet doth so hidden lye
That een the botanist much less the clown
Wins not its glances till he stoops adown
To pay it notice & as in amaze
It seems to shrink in grass to shun his praise