Great purple pansies, each with snowy heart, 



And golden ones with eyes of deepest blue; 

 Some "freaked with jet," some pure white ones apart, 

 But all so sweet and fresh with morning dew, 

 I could not bear to lose them, 

 I could not help but choose them, 

 For sweet Content sat singing where they grew. 



Selected. 



Every-Day Botany 



Who doubts there are classes 



Of men, like the grasses 

 And flowers subdivided in many a way ? 



You've seen them, I've seen them, 



We've jostled between them, 

 These manifold specimens day after day. 



You've met nettles that sting you, 



And roses that fling you 

 Their exquisite incense from warm, hidden hearts, 



And bright morning-glories 



That tell their own stories 

 With round honest faces, rehearsing their parts. 



Sometimes an old thistle 



Will bluster and bustle, 

 When chance or necessity leads you his way; 



But do not upbraid him 



He's just as God made him; 

 Perchance some small good he has done in his day. 



The poppies think sleeping 



Far better than weeping, 

 And never let worry usurp a good nod ; 



They'll laugh and grow fatter 



O'er any grave matter, 

 When sensitive plants would sink under the sod. 



