The Woodspurge has a star-shaped flower,

All of itself, all in its hour,

When the north wind blows and the drought is fell,

With small soft leaves, and stem too tell

The blundering bee from the bough to mix

The sap of the Earth to taste of its licks.

For in the groves he strolls alone,

And fills his cup from the water’s stone.

In the first still glen of the wood’s abode,

All in the flower as in its road.

For Earth and Heaven move without us all,

Yet shed their charms with the mind’s sweet thrall.

• Elizabeth Barrett Browning