As children bid the guest good night, 

 And then reluctant turn, 

 My flowers raise their pretty lips, 

 Then put their nightgowns on. 



As children caper when they wake, 

 Merry that it is morn, 

 My flowers from a hundred cribs 

 Will peep, and prance again. 



Emily Dickinson. 



We know they sleep; at eve the Daisy small 



Foldeth all up 

 Her sun-tipp'd rays; and the wave's empress * shuts 



Her starlit cup ; 



And each fair flower, though some with open eye, 

 Listens and yields to nature's 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, lull'd by soothing balm that his own leaves distil, 

 Sleeps while the night-dews fall upon the moonlit hill. 



*The Water-lily. Louisa Ann Twamley. 



Come into the garden, Maud, 



For the black bat, night, has flown, 

 Come into the garden, Maud, 



