THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



blue flowers bluer than the wings of my 

 favourite butterflies with white centres 

 the lovely bird's-eyes, or veronica. The 

 violet and cowslip, bluebell and rose, are 

 known to thousands ; the veronica is over- 

 looked. The ploughboys know it, and 

 the wayside children, the mower and those 

 who linger in fields, but few else. Brightly 

 blue and surrounded by greenest grass, 

 imbedded in and all the more blue for 

 the shadow of the grass, these growing 

 butterflies' wings draw to themselves the 

 sun. From this island I look down into 

 the depth of the grasses. Red sorrel 

 spires deep drinkers of reddest sun wine 

 stand the boldest, and in their numbers 

 threaten the buttercups. To these in the 

 distance they give the gipsy-gold tint 

 the reflection of fire on plates of the pre- 

 cious metal. It will show even on a ring 

 by firelight; blood in the gold, they say. 

 Gather the open marguerite daisies, and 

 they seem large so wide a disc, such 

 fingers of rays; but in the grass their size 



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