A MIDNIGHT RAMBLE. 25 
worthy a more notable recognition than it received, none the less 
so because it quarrelled with literal fact, for my spirit moth found ! 
no open poppy-cups at midnight. The poppy welcomes all the 
“meadow tribes” during the day, but at night her four damask ) 
curtains are closely drawn, the two inner petals being coiled with- 
in each other above the tiny head that wears a crown within, 
and the outer pair enfolding all in their crumpled bivalve clasp. 
And yet how few have ever seen a sleeping poppy! 
The wilds are full of companion instances of sleeping beauty, 
but there are few lovelier than is afforded in our own fringed 
gentian. 
“Thus doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky,” 
sings Bryant in his beautiful tribute to this flower—a sentiment 
which is true of the blossom by day, but this darling closes its 
“fringed curtains” at night like other blue-eyed folk. So do 
many of the asters, their drowsy fringes coiling close in various ' 
sleepy curls and cuddles. We have already noted, in our initial 
vignette, the daisy, “how he will go to rest.” 
“Oft have I watched thy closing buds at eve, 
Which for the parting sunbeams seem to grieve,” 
says a poet who followed the footsteps of Chaucer; as did Words- 
worth also: 
‘* And when at dusk, by dews opprest, 
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness.” 
Shakespeare, with his characteristic omniscience and felicity, al- 
ludes to the similar habit of the marigold— 
“that goes to bed with the sun, 
And with him rises weeping.” 
