Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother, What kind of flower will you be? I'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother; Do be a poppy like me. What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you When you're grown golden and high! But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you; Little brown brother, good-bye.
Raining, raining, All night long; Sometimes loud, sometimes soft, Just like a song.
There'll be rivers in the gutters And lakes along the street. It will make our lazy kitty Wash his little dirty feet.
The roses will wear diamonds Like kings and queens at court; But the pansies all get muddy Because they are so short.
I'll sail my boat to-morrow In wonderful new places, But first I'll take my watering-pot And wash the pansies' faces.
I love daffodils. I love Narcissus when he bends his head. I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodils Out of my rhyme of song. Do you know anything about the spring When it comes again? God knows about it while winter is lasting: Flowers bring him power in the spring, And birds bring it, and children. He is sometimes sad and alone Up there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy. I bring him songs when he is in his sadness, and weary. I tell him how I used to wander out to study stars and the moon he made And flowers in the dark of the wood. I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten, And that snowdrops are up. What can I say to make him listen? "God," I say, "Don't you care! Nobody must be sad or sorry In the spring-time of flowers."
This pansy has a thinking face Like the yellow moon. This one has a face with white blots: I call him the clown. Here goes one down the grass With a pretty look of plumpness: She is a little girl going to school With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. Her name is Sue. I like this one, in a bonnet, Waiting-- Her eyes are so deep! But these on the other side, These that wear purple and blue, They are the Velvets, The king with his cloak, The queen with her gown, The prince with his feather. These are dark and quiet And stay alone.
_I know you, Velvets Color of Dark, Like the pine-tree on the hill When stars shine!_
When apple-blossom time doth come And with their scent the air is filled, And fields are full of buttercups,-- 'Tis then the swallows build.