The Season Poem by Anonymous British

Now spring the living herbs, profusely wild,
O'er all the deep green earth, beyond the power
Of botanist to number up the tribes:
Whether he steals along the lonely dale,
In silent search; or through the forest rank,
With what the dull incurious weeds account,
Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain's top,
Fired by the nodding verdure of its brow.
But who their virtues can declare? who pierce,
With vision pure, into those secret stores
Of health, and life, and joy?