Floral Poetry. 
T 57 
So said little Red-cap, and all the rout 
Of the Poppy clan set up a mighty shout; 
Mighty for them, but, if you had heard, 
You had thought it the cry of a tiny bird. 
So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field ; 
In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled, 
And shook out their jackets, till nought was seen 
But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green. 
The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk, 
Quietly smiling at all their talk ; 
The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun, 
And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun. 
The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she, 
For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity 
Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew, 
Content with herself and her plain purple hue. 
The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow, 
To some bringing joy, and to others e’en sorrow, 
But blithe was the rich rosy Farmer that morn 
When he went with his reapers among the corn. 
He trotted along, and he cracked his joke, 
And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk ; 
For the weather was settled, barometer high, 
And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye. 
