Foresight

That is work of waste and ruin--Do as Charles and I are doing!Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,We must spare them--here are many:Look at it--the flower is small,Small and low, though fair as any:Do not touch it! summers twoI am older, Anne, than you.Pull the primrose, sister Anne!Pull as many as you can.--Here are daisies, take your fill;Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:Of the lofty daffodilMake your bed, or make your bower;Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them--Summer knows but little of them:Violets, a barren kind,Withered on the ground must lie;Daisies leave no fruit behindWhen the pretty flowerets die;Pluck them, and another yearAs many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier powerTo the favoured strawberry-flower.Hither soon as spring is fledYou and Charles and I will walk;Lurking berries, ripe and red,Then will hang on every stalk,Each within its leafy bower;And for that promise spare the flower!

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,Let them live upon their praises;Long as there's a sun that sets,Primroses will have their glory;Long as there are violets,They will have a place in story:There's a flower that shall be mine,'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel farFor the finding of a star;Up and down the heavens they go,Men that keep a mighty rout!I'm as great as they, I trow,Since the day I found thee out,Little Flower!--I'll make a stir,Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an ElfBold, and lavish of thyself;Since we needs must first have metI have seen thee, high and low,Thirty years or more, and yet'Twas a face I did not know;Thou hast now, go where I may,Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,In the time before the thrushHas a thought about her nest,Thou wilt come with half a call,Spreading out thy glossy breastLike a careless Prodigal;Telling tales about the sun,When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!Travel with the multitude:Never heed them; I averThat they all are wanton wooers;But the thrifty cottager,Who stirs little out of doors,Joys to spy thee near her home;Spring is coming, Thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,Kindly, unassuming Spirit!Careless of thy neighbourhood,Thou dost show thy pleasant faceOn the moor, and in the wood,In the lane;--there's not a place,Howsoever mean it be,But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befal the yellow flowers,Children of the flaring hours!Buttercups, that will be seen,Whether we will see or no;Others, too, of lofty mien;They have done as worldlings do,Taken praise that should be thine,Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,Ill-requited upon earth;Herald of a mighty band,Of a joyous train ensuing,Serving at my heart's command,Tasks that are no tasks renewing,I will sing, as doth behove,Hymns in praise of what I love!