FLAX. • 
201 
it groweth, and it groweth last; 
One day it is a seed, 
And then a little grassy blade, 
Scarce better than a weed. 
But then out comes the flax-flower, 
As blue as is the sky; 
And “’tis a dainty little thing!” 
We say, as we go by. 
An, ’tis a goodly little-thing, 
It groweth for the poor, 
And many a peasant blesses it, 
Beside his cottage-door. 
He thinketh how those slender stems 
That shimmer in the sun, 
Are rich for him in web and woof, 
And shortly shall be spun. 
He thinketh how those tender flowers, 
Of seed will yield him store; 
And sees in thought his next-year’s crop 
Blue shining round his door. 
Oh, the little flax-flower! 
The mother, then says she, 
“ Go pull the thyme, the heath, the fern 
But let the flax-flower be ! 
It groweth for the children’s sake, 
It groweth for our own; 
There are flowers enough upon the hill. 
But leave the flax alone 1 
