Oh, garden of grasses deep and wild,
So dear to the vagrant and the child
And the singer of an hour.
To the wayworn soul you give your balm,
Your cup of peace, your stringèd psalm,
Your grace of bud and flower.
Ada Foster Murray
THE DANDELION
O dandelion, rich and haughty,
King of village flowers!
Each day is coronation time,
You have no humble hours.
I like to see you bring a troop
To beat the blue-grass spears,
To scorn the lawn-mower that would be
Like fate's triumphant shears.
Your yellow heads are cut away,
It seems your reign is o'er.
By noon you raise a sea of stars
More golden than before.
Vachel Lindsay
JOE-PYEWEED
And the name brings back those kindly hills
And the drowsing life so new to me;
And the welcome that those purple blossoms
With their tiny trumpets blew to me.
Stout and tall, they raised their clustered heads,
Leaping, as a lusty fellow would,
Through the lowlands, down the twisting cow-paths;
Running past the green and yellow wood.