dreaming

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.