The Book of the Native

by Charles G.D. Roberts


The Heal-All


Dear blossom of the wayside kin,
    Whose homely, wholesome name
Tells of a potency within
    To win thee country fame!

The sterile hillocks are thy home,

    Beside the windy path;
The sky, a pale and lonely dome,
    Is all thy vision hath.

Thy unobtrusive purple face
    Amid the meagre grass

Greets me with long-remembered grace,
    And cheers me as I pass.

And I, outworn by petty care,
    And vexed with trivial wrong,
I heed thy brave and joyous air

    Until my heart grows strong.

A lesson from the Power I crave
    That moves in me and thee,
That makes thee modest, calm, and brave,—
    Me restless as the sea.


Thy simple wisdom I would gain,—
    To heal the hurt Life brings,
With kindly cheer, and faith in pain,
    And joy of common things.