Flowers

What favourite flowers are mine, I cannot say-

My fancy changes with the summer’s day.

Sometimes I think, agreeing with the Bees,

That my best flowers are those tall apple trees,

Who give a Bee his cyder while in bloom,

And keep me waiting till their apples come.

Sometimes I think the Columbine has won,

Who hangs her head and never looks at the Sun

Straight in the face. And now the Golden Rod

Beckons me over with a graceful nod;

Shaped like a sheaf of corn, her ruddy skin

Drinks the Sun dry, and leaves his splendour thin.

Sometimes I think the Rose must have her place-

And then the lily shakes her golden dice

Deep in a silver cup, to win or lose.

So I go on, from Columbine to Rose,

From Marygold to Flock, from Flock to Thrift-

Till nothing in my garden but stones are left.

And when I see the dimples in her face,

All filled with tender moss in everyplace-

Ah, then I think, when all is said and done,

My favourite flower must be the Mossy Stone!