“Whose are the little beds,” I asked,
“Which in the valleys lie?”
Some shook their heads, and others smiled,
And no one made reply.
“Perhaps they did not hear,” I said;
“I will inquire again.
Whose are the beds, the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?”
“‘ T is daisy in the shortest;
A little farther on,
Nearest the door to wake the first,
Little leontodon.
“‘ T is iris, sir, and aster,
Anemone and bell,
Batschia in the blanket red,
And chubby daffodil.”
Meanwhile at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied,
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.
“Hush! Epigea wakens! —
The crocus stirs her lids,
Rhodora's cheek is crimson, —
She's dreaming of the woods.”
Then, turning from them, reverent,
“Their bed-time‘ t is,” she said;
“The bumble-bees will wake them
When April woods are red.”