But ne'er was flower so fair as this,
In modern days or olden;
It groweth on its nodding stem
Like to a garland golden.
And all about my mother's door
Shine out its glittering bushes,
And down the glen, where clear as light
The mountain-water gushes.
Take all the rest; but give me this,
And the bird that nestles in it;
I love it, for it loves the Broom—
The green and yellow linnet.
Well call the rose the queen of flowers,
And boast of that of Sharon,
Of lilies like to marble cups,
And the golden rod of Aaron:
I care not how these flowers may be
Beloved of man and woman;
The Broom it is the flower for me,
That groweth on the common.
Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom,
The ancient poet sung it,
And dear it is on summer days
To lie at rest among it.
Mary Howitt [1799-1888]
THE SMALL CELANDINE
There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!