The Posy Ring Part 16

Wild pinks are slumbering; Violets delay: True little Dandelion Greeteth the May.

Brave little Dandelion!

Fast falls the snow, Bending the daffodil's Haughty head low.

Under that fleecy tent, Careless of cold, Blithe little Dandelion Counteth her gold.

Meek little Dandelion Groweth more fair, Till dies the amber dew Out from her hair.

High rides the thirsty sun, Fiercely and high; Faint little Dandelion Closeth her eye.

Pale little Dandelion, In her white shroud, Heareth the angel breeze Call from the cloud!

Tiny plumes fluttering Make no delay!

Little winged Dandelion Soareth away.

Helen B. Bostwick.

_Dandelions_

Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning.

We were not waked by bugle notes, No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet, at dawn their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded.

We careless folk the deed forgot; 'Till one day, idly walking, We marked upon the self-same spot A crowd of vet'rans talking.

They shook their trembling heads and gray With pride and noiseless laughter; When, well-a-day! they blew away, And ne'er were heard of after!

Helen Gray Cone.

The Flax Flower

Oh, the little flax flower!

It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or 'sleep It never standeth still.

It groweth, and it groweth fast; One day it is a seed And then a little gra.s.sy blade Scarce better than a weed.

But then out comes the flax flower As blue as is the sky; And "'Tis a dainty little thing,"

We say as we go by.

Ah! 'tis a goodly little thing, It groweth for the poor, And many a peasant blesseth it Beside his cottage door.

He thinketh how those slender stems That shimmer in the sun Are rich for him in web and woof And shortly shall be spun.

He thinketh how those tender flowers Of seed will yield him store, And sees in thought his next year's crop Blue shining round his door.

Oh, the little flax flower!

The mother then says she, "Go, pull the thyme, the heath, the fern, But let the flax flower be!

It groweth for the children's sake, It groweth for our own; There are flowers enough upon the hill, But leave the flax alone!

The farmer hath his fields of wheat, Much cometh to his share; We have this little plot of flax That we have tilled with care."

Oh, the goodly flax flower!

It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or 'sleep, It never standeth still.

It seemeth all astir with life As if it loved to thrive, As if it had a merry heart Within its stem alive.

Then fair befall the flax-field, And may the kindly showers Give strength unto its shining stem, Give seed unto its flowers!

Mary Howitt.

_Dear Little Violets_

Under the green hedges after the snow, There do the dear little violets grow, Hiding their modest and beautiful heads Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.

Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky, Down there do the dear little violets lie; Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen, By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.

John Moultrie.

_Bird's Song in Spring_

The silver birch is a dainty lady, She wears a satin gown; The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady, She will not live in town.

The English oak is a st.u.r.dy fellow, He gets his green coat late; The willow is smart in a suit of yellow, While brown the beech trees wait.

Such a gay green gown G.o.d gives the larches-- As green as He is good!

The hazels hold up their arms for arches When Spring rides through the wood.

The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty, The poplar's gentle and tall, But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city-- I love him best of all!

E. Nesbit.

_The Tree_

The Tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown; "Shall I take them away?" said the Frost, sweeping down.

"No, leave them alone Till the blossoms have grown,"

Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.

The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: "Shall I take them away?" said the Wind, as he swung.

"No, leave them alone Till the berries have grown,"

Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.

The Tree bore his fruit in the mid-summer glow: Said the girl, "May I gather thy berries now?"