It groweth on the hill, 
And, be the breeze awake or sleep, 
It never standeth still. 
It groweth, and it groweth fast; 
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. 
