THE SLEEPING FLOWERS.

“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.”