Lowell.    

E. L. Aveline.    

	The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
	Though to itself it only live and die,
	But if that flower with base infection meet,
	The basest weed outbraves his dignity;
	For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
	Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Shakespeare.    

	I will go root away
	The noisome weeds which without profit suck
	The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.

Shakespeare.    

	Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted;
	Suffer them now, and they’ll o’ergrow the garden,
	And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.

Shakespeare.    

	In the deep shadow of the porch
	A slender bind-weed springs,
	And climbs, like airy acrobat,
	The trellises, and swings
	And dances in the golden sun
	In fairy loops and rings.

Susan Coolidge.