What favourite flowers are mine, I cannot say – My fancy changes with the summer's day. Sometimes I think, agreeing with the Bees, That my best flowers are those tall apple trees, Who give a Bee his cyder while in bloom, And keep me waiting till their apples come. Sometimes I think the Columbine has won, Who hangs her head and never looks the Sun Straight in the face. And now the Golden Rod Beckons me over with a graceful nod; Shaped like a sheaf of corn, her ruddy skin Drinks the Sun dry, and leaves his splendour thin. Sometimes I think the Rose must have her place – And then the Lily shakes her golden dice Deep in a silver cup, to win or lose. So I go on, from Columbine to Rose, From Marigold to Flock, from Flock to Thrift – Till nothing but my garden stones are left. But when I see the dimples in her face, All filled with tender moss in every place – Ah, then I think, when all is said and done, My favourite flower must be a Mossy Stone! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HE MOURNS FOR THE CHANGE THAT HAS COME UPON HIM AND BELOVED by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS SCURVY ENTERTAINMENT by ABU ABD ALLAH LINES ON THE DEATH OF PHILIP MEADOWS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ON THE WATERFRONT by WILLIAM ROSE BENET PSALM 73: INTRODUCTORY LINES by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE AN OLD SONG by SOLOMON BLOOMGARDEN A WOMAN'S SONNETS: 9 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE MAIN DRAG by BERTON BRALEY THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: THE CASTLE OF KING MACBETH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |