THE FLOWER CLOCKS.
T WAS midsummer morn, the night had died,
When Lois threw open her lattice wide,
And cried to herself with joyous pride,
"There's nobody up in the world beside!"
But the morning glories were wide awake,
And bowed their beautiful heads, and shake:
"Our sun, the Dawn, is an hour up;
On disk and bell, on chalice and cup,
On stately spikes, and tendrils curly,
She lavishly hangs her jewels pearly,
And decks like a bride the morning early."
Then Lois laughed, and said, "Ah, me!
The morning time is fair to see!"
But the hours went on, and by and by
The lordly sun rose high in the sky;
Then the loyal sunflower raised its head,
And fervently called to the child, and said,
Come, bask in the full, high noontide heat,
The Earth is asleep at her Master's feet;
The wind itself is too warm to stir;
But the blue-flies buzz, and the locusts whirr:
I follow my king from east to west,
And his beams forever enchant my breast;
But his noontide look I love the best."
Then Lois laughed like a silver chime,
"The glowing noon is the goodliest time!"
But the hours flew on as the swallow flies,
The sun was far in the western skies;
Then the four-o-clocks opened their indolent eyes,
And looked at the maiden in slow surprise.
"Is there anything half so fair," said they,
"As this golden hour of a golden day?
The dawn's gone by with her dripping feet,
And the scorching noon with its burden and heat,
And now the shadows are slant and sweet;
The hay comes home on the swaying wain;
The cows are lowing along the lane."
Then Lois laughed with girlish glee,
"This golden hour's the hour for me!"
But the hours sped on, and the sun went down,
The tree-tops lost their golden crown;
And the primrose spread in the twilight mellow
Her petals of faint and far-off yellow.
"Come hither," she breathed, "sweet child, and see
The tint of the evening skies in me.
The wind is sighing in dreamy whispers,
The thrush is singing his solemn vespers,
The air is heavy with honeydew,
The stars in heaven are peeping through,
And the angel of sleep is waiting for you."
Then Lois laughed, " Good-night, fair flower,
The cool, pure eve is the sweetest hour."
Olive A. Wadsworth