There must be fairy miners
Just underneath the mould,
Such wondrous quaint designers
Who live in caves of gold.
They take the shining metals,
And beat them into shreds,
And mould them into petals
To make the flowers' heads.
Sometimes they melt the flowers
To tiny seeds like pearls,
And store them up in bowers
For little boys and girls.
And still a tiny fan turns
Above a forge of gold,
To keep, with fairy lanterns,
The world from growing old.
Wilfrid Thorley [1878-
THE BROOM FLOWER
Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom,
The ancient poet sung it,
And dear it is on summer days
To lie at rest among it.
I know the realms where people say
The flowers have not their fellow;
I know where they shine out like suns,
The crimson and the yellow.
I know where ladies live enchained
In luxury's silken fetters,
And flowers as bright as glittering gems
Are used for written letters.