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 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 Marigold to Flock, from Flock to Thrift – Till nothing but my garden stones are left. But when I see the dimples in her face, All filled with tender moss in every place – Ah, then I think, when all is said and done, My favourite flower must be a Mossy Stone! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SINGER OF ONE SONG by HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS THE LOVER'S MESSAGE; SONG by JOHN DRYDEN THE CLOUD by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE EUMENIDES: THE FURIES' PRAYER by AESCHYLUS ELEGY FOR A DEAD KING by AL-KUTANDI THE LORD SPEAKS by KARLE WILSON BAKER |