O long long stems that twine!
O buds, so neatly furled!
O great white bells of mine,
(None purer in the world)
Each lasting but one day!
O leafy garlands, hung
In wreaths beside the way—
Well may your praise be sung!
I’ll be asleep by noon!
Though bedtime comes so soon,
I’m busy too.
Twelve puffs!—and then from sight
I shut my flowers tight;
Only by morning light
They’re seen by you.
Then, on some day of sun,
They’ll open wide, each one,
As something new!
Shepherd, who minds his flock,
Calls it a Shepherd’s Clock,
Though it can’t say “tick-tock”
As others do!
I have handsome leaves, and my stalk is tall,
And my flowers are prettily yellow;
Yet nobody thinks me nice at all:
They think me a tiresome fellow—
An ugly weed
And a rogue indeed.
For wherever I happen to spy,
As I look around,
That they’ve dug their ground,
I say to my seeds “Go, fly!”
And because I am found
On the nice soft ground,
A trespassing weed am I!
“’Morning, Sir, and how-d’ye-do?
’Morning, pretty lady!”
That is Jack saluting you,
Where the lane is shady.
Don’t you know him? Straight and tall—
Taller than the nettles;
Large and light his leaves; and small
Are his buds and petals.
Small and white, with petals four,
See his flowers growing!
If you never knew before,
There is Jack for knowing!
You come with the Spring,
O swallow on high!
You come with the Spring,
And so do I.
Your nest, I know,
Is under the eaves;
While far below
Are my flowers and leaves.
Yet, to and fro
As you dart and fly,
You swoop so low
That you brush me by!
I come with the Spring;
The wall is my home;
I come with the Spring
When the swallows come.
“Why are we called ‘Black’, sister,
When we’ve yellow flowers?”
“I will show you why, brother:
See these seeds of ours?
Very soon each tiny seed
Will be turning black indeed!”
Given me hundreds of years ago,
My name has a meaning you shall know:
It means, in the speech of the bygone folk,
“Smoke of the Earth” —a soft green smoke!
A wonderful plant to them I seemed;
Strange indeed were the dreams they dreamed,
Partly fancy and partly true,
About “Fumiter” and the way it grew.
Where men have ploughed
or have dug the ground,
Still, with my rosy flowers, I’m found;
Known and prized by the bygone folk
As “Smoke of the Earth” —
a soft green smoke!
On the breeze my fluff is blown;
So my airy seeds are sown.
Where the earth is burnt and sad,
I will come to make it glad.
All forlorn and ruined places,
All neglected empty spaces,
I can cover—only think!—
With a mass of rosy pink.
Burst then, seed-pods; breezes, blow!
Far and wide my seeds shall go!
In Spring he is found;
He creeps on the ground;
But someone’s to blame
For the rest of his name—
For Ivy he’s not!
Oh dear, what a lot
Of muddles we make!
It’s quite a mistake,
And really a pity
Because he’s so pretty;
He deserves a nice name—
Yes, someone’s to blame!
Here’s a cheerful somebody,
By the woodland’s edge;
Campion the many-named,
Robin-in-the-hedge.
Coming when the bluebells come,
When they’re gone, he stays,
(Round Robin, Red Robin)
All the summer days.
Soldiers’ Buttons, Robin Flower,
In the lane or wood;
Robin Redbreast, Red Jack,
Yes, and Robin Hood!
The Fairy:
O, what a great big bee
Has come to visit me!
He’s come to find my honey.
O, what a great big bee!
The Bee:
O, what a great big Clover!
I’ll search it well, all over,
And gather all its honey.
O, what a great big Clover!
“Good morning, Mr Grasshopper!
Please stay and talk a bit!”
“Why yes, you pretty Fairy;
Upon this grass I’ll sit.
And let us ask some riddles;
They’re better fun than chat:
Why am I like the Stork’s-bill?
Come, can you answer that?”
“Oh no, you clever Grasshopper!
I fear I am a dunce;
I cannot guess the answer—
I give it up at once!”
“When children think they’ve caught me,
I’m gone, with leap and hop;
And when they gather Stork’s-bill,
Why, all the petals drop!”
In busy kitchens, in olden days,
Tansy was used in a score of ways;
Chopped and pounded,
when cooks would make
Tansy puddings and tansy cake,
Tansy posset, or tansy tea;
Physic or flavouring tansy’d be.
People who know
Have told me so!
That is my tale of the past; today,
Still I’m here by the King’s Highway,
Where the air from the fields
is fresh and sweet,
With my fine-cut leaves and my flowers neat.
Were ever such button-like flowers seen—
Yellow, for elfin coats of green?
Three in a row—
I stitch them so!
In the grass o’ the bank,
by the side o’ the way,
Where your feet may stray
On your luckiest day,
There’s a sight most rare
that your eyes may see:
A beautiful orchis that looks like a bee!
A velvety bee, with a proud little elf,
Who looks like the wonderful
orchis himself—
In the grass o’ the hill,
Not often, but still
Just once in a way
On your luckiest day!
Hullo, Snailey-O!
How’s the world with you?
Put your little horns out;
Tell me how you do?
There’s rain, and dust, and sunshine,
Where carts go creaking by;
You like it wet, Snailey;
I like it dry!
Hey ho, Snailey-O,
I’ll whistle you a tune!
I’m merry in September
As e’er I am in June.
By any stony roadside
Wherever you may roam,
All the summer through, Snailey,
Plantain’s at home!
Spikes of yellow flowers,
All along the lane;
When the petals vanish,
Burrs of red remain.
First the spike of flowers,
Then the spike of burrs;
Carry them like soldiers,
Smartly, little sirs!
These are the things I love and know:
The sound of the waves, the sight of the sea;
The great wide shore when the tide is low;
Where there’s salt in the air, it’s home to me—
With my petals of gold—the home for me!
The waves come up and cover the sand,
Then turn at the pebbly slope of the beach;
I feel the spray of them, where I stand,
Safe and happy, beyond their reach—
With my marvellous horns—
beyond their reach!
By the white cart-road,
Dusty and dry,
Look! there is Chicory,
Blue as the sky!
Or, where the footpath
Goes through the corn,
See her bright flowers,
Each one new-born!
Though they fade quickly,
O, have no sorrow!
There will be others
New-born tomorrow!
By the peaceful stream or the shady pool
I dip my leaves in the water cool.
Over the water I lean all day,
Where the sticklebacks and the minnows play.
I dance, I dance, when the breezes blow,
And dip my toes in the stream below.
All Laburnum’s
Yellow flowers
Hanging thick
In happy showers,—
Look at them!
The reason’s plain
Why folks call them
“Golden Rain”!
“Golden Chains”
They call them too,
Swinging there
Against the blue.
Bees! bees! come to the trees
Where the Lime has hung her treasures;
Come, come, hover and hum;
Come and enjoy your pleasures!
The feast is ready, the guests are bidden;
Under the petals the honey is hidden;
Like pearls shine the drops of sweetness there,
And the scent of the Lime-flowers fills the air.
But soon these blossoms pretty and pale
Will all be gone; and the leaf-like sail
Will bear the little round fruits away;
So bees! bees! come while you may!
There’s a gentle tree with a satiny bark,
All silver-white, and upon it, dark,
Is many a crosswise line and mark—
She’s a tree there’s no mistaking!
The Birch is this light and lovely tree,
And as light and lovely still is she
When the Summer’s time has come to flee,
As she was at Spring’s awaking.
She has new Birch-catkins, small and tight,
Though the old ones scatter
and take their flight,
And the little leaves, all yellow and bright,
In the autumn winds are shaking.
And with fluttering wings
and hands that cling,
The fairies play and the fairies swing
On the fine thin twigs,
that will toss and spring
With never a fear of breaking.
By the lake or river-side
Where the Alders dwell,
In the Autumn may be spied
Baby catkins; cones beside—
Old and new as well.
Seasons come and seasons go;
That’s the tale they tell!
After Autumn, Winter’s cold
Leads us to the Spring;
And, before the leaves unfold,
On the Alder you’ll behold,
Crimson catkins swing!
They are making ready now:
That’s the song I sing!
Chestnuts, sweet Chestnuts,
To pick up and eat,
Or keep until Winter,
When, hot, they’re a treat!
Like hedgehogs, their shells
Are prickly outside;
But silky within,
Where the little nuts hide,
Till the shell is split open,
And, shiny and fat,
The Chestnut appears;
Says the Fairy: “How’s that?”
Soft and brown in Winter-time,
Dark and green in Summer’s prime,
All their leaves a yellow haze
In the pleasant Autumn days—
See the lines of Elm trees stand
Keeping watch through all the land
Over lanes, and crops, and cows,
And the fields where Dobbin ploughs.
All day long, with listening ears,
Sits the Elm-tree Elf, and hears
Distant bell, and bleat, and bark,
Whistling boy, and singing lark.
Often on the topmost boughs
Many a rook has built a house;
Evening comes; and overhead,
Cawing, home they fly to bed.
White May is flowering,
Red May beside;
Laburnum is showering
Gold far and wide;
But I sing of Lilac,
The dearly-loved Lilac,
Lilac, in Maytime
A joy and a pride!
I love her so much
That I never can tell
If she’s sweeter to look at,
Or sweeter to smell.
When the days have grown in length,
When the sun has greater power,
Shining in his noonday strength;
When the Elder Tree’s in flower;
When each shady kind of place
By the stream and up the lane,
Shows its mass of creamy lace—
Summer’s really come again!
The trunks of Beeches are smooth and grey,
Like tall straight pillars of stone
In great Cathedrals where people pray;
Yet from tiny things they’ve grown.
About their roots is the moss; and wide
Their branches spread, and high;
It seems to us, on the earth who bide,
That their heads are in the sky.
And when Spring is here,
and their leaves appear,
With a silky fringe on each,
Nothing is seen so new and green
As the new young green of Beech.
O the great grey Beech is young, is young,
When, dangling soft and small,
Round balls of bloom from its twigs are hung,
And the sun shines over all.
Because my seeds have wings, you know,
They fly away to earth;
And where they fall, why, there they grow—
New Sycamores have birth!
Perhaps a score? Oh, hundreds more!
Too many, people say!
And yet to me it’s fun to see
My winged seeds fly away.
(But first they must turn ripe and brown,
And lose their flush of red;
And then they’ll all go twirling down
To earth, to find a bed.)
“Here we go round the Mulberry bush!”
You remember the rhyme—oh yes!
But which of you know
How Mulberries grow
On the slender branches, drooping low?
Not many of you, I guess.
Someone goes round the Mulberry bush
When nobody’s there to see;
He takes the best
And he leaves the rest,
From top to toe like a Mulberry drest:
This fat little fairy’s he!