68 August. 
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 gladden'd his practised eye. 
“We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he, 
As he tied his white pony under a tree, 
“Next the upland wheat, and then the oats :” 
How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats ! 
Aye, shook with laughter, not fear, for they 
Never dreamed they too should be swept away ; 
And their laughter was spite, to think that all 
Their useful neighbours were doomed to fall. 
They swelled and bustled with such an air, 
The corn-fields quite in commotion were, 
