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?
‘Tis Daisy, in the shortest —
A little further on —
Nearest the door — to wake the Ist —
Little Leontoden.
‘Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster —
Anemone, and Bell —
Bartsia, 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 bedtime ’tis, she said —
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.
Flowers are like children that will waken in the Spring.