THE SLEEPING FLOWERS.
"Whose are the little beds," I asked, "Which in the valleys lie?"Some shook their heads, and others smiled, And no one made reply.
"Perhaps they did not hear," I said;
"I will inquire again.
Whose are the beds, the tiny beds So thick upon the plain?""'T is daisy in the shortest;
A little farther on, Nearest the door to wake the first, Little leontodon.
"'T is iris, sir, and aster, Anemone and bell, Batschia in the blanket red, And chubby daffodil."Meanwhile at many cradles Her busy foot she plied, Humming the quaintest lullaby That ever rocked a child.
"Hush! Epigea wakens!-- The crocus stirs her lids, Rhodora's cheek is crimson, --She's dreaming of the woods."
Then, turning from them, reverent, "Their bed-time 't is," she said;"The bumble-bees will wake them When April woods are red."XI.
MY ROSE.
Pigmy seraphs gone astray, Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day, Bees' exclusive coterie.
Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald;Venice could not show a cheek Of a tint so lustrous meek.
Never such an ambuscade As of brier and leaf displayed For my little damask maid.
I had rather wear her grace Than an earl's distinguished face;I had rather dwell like her Than be Duke of Exeter Royalty enough for me To subdue the bumble-bee!
