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There is romance in every stem that bends
In motion soft
Beneath the wind that rustles in the tall
Tree-tops aloft,
And mid their branches whistlingly doth blow,
While it but fans the flowers that sleep below.
We know they sleep; at eve the daisy small
Foldeth all up
Her blush-tipped rays; and the wave's empress[1] hides
Her star-lit cup:
And each fair flower, though some with open eye,
Listens and yields to natures lullaby.
The nodding Foxglove slumbers on her stalk;
And fan-like ferns
Seem poised still and sleepily, until
The morn returns
With singing birds and beams of rosy light,
To bid them dance and frolic in delight.
The drowsy Poppy, who has all the day
Proudly outspread
His scarlet mantle, folds it closely now
Around his head;
And, lulled by soothing bairn that his own leaves distil,
Sleeps, while the night dews fall upon the moonlit hill.
- ↑ The Water-lily.
