THISTLE-DOWN

The thistle-down floats on the air, the air,

Whenever the soft wind blows,

And the wind can tell just where, just where

The feathery thistle-down goes.

And it tells the bird in a single word,

Who whispers it low to the bee;

And they try to keep the mystery deep,

And none of them tell it to me.

But I know well, though they never will tell,

Where the thistle-down goes when it says “Farewell,”

It floats and floats away on the air,

And goes where the wind goes — everywhere!