Bright little dandelion

Glitters in the sun,

The wind combs out his yellow hair

Like gold that is spun:

Let the winter work its will

With its frost and snow;

When he hears the robin's trill,

He begins to grow.

What is he about there,

Underneath the mold

Has he not an hour to spare,

Digging hard for gold

Has he work enough to do

To cut his jacket green,

To slash it and shape it too,

Fit for king or queen?

How does he hear, think,

When brooks begin to flow?

Does he never sleep a wink

The long night through?

Like a ghost he fades, alas,

Ere the summer's fled,

In among the meadow grass,

A halo round his head.

—Mary N. Prescott