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. 



