I love each flower beneath the sun,

Wherever it buds and blows;

From the pale arbutus that hides like a nun,

To the flushed and queenly rose.

But the cardinal flower to me is best

As close by the rivulet’s brim

It regally wears its flaming crest,

In the woodlands cool and dim.

I long to lie in the pine tree’s shade,

Or tread on the tufted moss;

If once away from the ways of trade,

I’d care not for gain or loss.

I would peacefully fall asleep at night

To the sound of singing streams,

With the glowing cardinal’s flower of light

To illumine the realm of dreams.

—Belle A. Hitchcock.