DISCONTENT

Down in the field, one day in June,

The flowers all bloomed together,

Save one, who tried to hide herself,

And drooped—that pleasant weather.

A robin, who had flown too high

And felt a little lazy,

Was resting near a buttercup,

Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grow so trim and tall;

She always had a passion

For wearing frills around her neck,

In just the daisies’ fashion.

And buttercups must always be

The same old, tiresome color,

While daisies dress in gold and white,

Although their gold is duller.

“Dear robin,” said this sad young flower,

“Perhaps you’d not mind trying

To find a nice white frill for me

Some day, when you are flying.”

“You silly thing,” the robin said,

“I think you must be crazy;

I’d rather be my honest self

Than any made-up daisy.

You’re nicer in your own bright gown;

The little children love you;

Be the best buttercup you can,

And think no flower above you.

Though swallows leave me out of sight,

We’d better keep our places.

Perhaps the world would go all wrong,

With one too many daisies.

Look bravely up into the sky,

And be content with knowing

That God wished for a buttercup

Just here, where you are growing.”

—Sarah Orne Jewett.