Green Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found,

Things Cirowing

Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;

A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company.

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

Green Things Growing

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The White Anemone

'Tis the white anemone, fashioned so
Like to the stars of the winter snow,
First thinks, "If I come too soon, no doubt
I shall seem but the snow that stayed too long,
So 'tis I that will be Spring's unguessed scout,"
And wide she wanders the woods among.
Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places,
Smile meek moonlight-colored faces

Of pale primroses puritan,

In maiden sisterhood demure;

Each virgin floweret faint and wan

With the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure.

OWEN MEREDITH.

(Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton.),

The Grass

The grass so little has to do,

A sphere of simple green,

With only butterflies to brood,

And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine,-

A duchess were too common

For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass

In odors so divine,

As lowly spices gone to sleep,

Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,

And dream the days away,

The grass so little has to do,

I wish I were the hay!

EMILY DICKINSON.

Green

Things Growing

Green Things Growing

The Corn-Song

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!

Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean

The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,

And waved in hot midsummer's noon
Its soft and yellow hair.