Left by the Royal Humming Birds, Green Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; Things Growing Fellow with all the lowliest, Peer of the gayest and the best; By sign of four which few may see; One out of three, and three in one; "SAXE HOLM." To the Dandelion (Extract) Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, Green Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Things Growing Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. To Daffodils Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we We have short time to stay, as you, We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. Green Things Growing ROBERT HERRICK. The Daffodils I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils, Continuous as the stars that shine The waves beside them danced, but they A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company. I gazed, and gazed, but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, Green Things Growing They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And dances with the daffodils. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The White Anemone "Tis the white anemone, fashioned so Of pale primroses puritan, In maiden sisterhood demure; Each virgin floweret faint and wan With the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure. OWEN MEREDITH. (Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton.) The Grass The grass so little has to do, A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty tunes And thread the dews all night, like pearls, A duchess were too common And even when it dies, to pass In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine. And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away, The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay! EMILY DICKINSON. Green Things Growing |