THE RACE OF THE FLOWERS
THE trees and the flowers seem running a race,
But none treads down the other;
And neither thinks it his disgrace
To be later than his brother.
Yet the pear-tree shouts to the lilac-tree,
“Make haste, for the Spring is late!”
And the lilac whispers to the chestnut-tree
(Because he is so great),
“Pray you, great sir, be quick, be quick,
For down below we are blossoming thick!”
Then the chestnut hears, and comes out in bloom,
White, or pink, to the tip-top boughs—
Oh, why not grow higher, there’s plenty of room,
You beautiful tree, with the sky for your house?
Then like music they seem to burst out together,
The little and the big, with a beautiful burst;
They sweeten the wind, they paint the weather,
And no one remembers which was first:
White rose, red rose,
Bud rose, shed rose,
Larkspur, and lily, and the rest,
North, south, east, west,
June, July, August, September!
Ever so late in the year will come
Many a red geranium,
And chrysanthemums up to November!
Then the winter has overtaken them all,
The fogs and the rains begin to fall,
And the flowers, after running their races,
Are weary, and shut up their little faces,
And under the ground they go to sleep.
Is it very far down? Yes, ever so deep.
POLLY
BROWN eyes,
Straight nose;
Dirt pies,
Rumpled clothes;
Torn books,
Spoilt toys;
Arch looks,
Unlike a boy’s;
Little rages,
Obvious arts;
(Three her age is,)
Cakes, tarts;
Falling down
Off chairs;
Breaking crown
Down stairs;
CATCHING flies
On the pane;
Deep sighs,—
Cause not plain;
Bribing you
With kisses
For a few
Farthing blisses;
Wide awake,
As you hear,
“Mercy’s sake,
Quiet, dear!”
New shoes,
New frock;
Vague views
Of what’s o’clock
When it’s time
To go to bed,
And scorn sublime
Of what is said;
Folded hands,
Saying prayers,
Understands
Not, nor cares;
Thinks it odd,
Smiles away;
Yet may God
Hear her pray!
Bedgown white,
Kiss Dolly;
Good-night!—
That’s Polly,
Fast asleep,
As you see;
Heaven keep
My girl for me!