To a Blue Flower

I WOULD be dismal with all the fine pearls of the crown of a king; But I can talk plainly to you, you little blue flower of the Spring!

Here in the heart of September the world that I walk in is full Of the hot happy sound of the shearing, the rude heavy scent of the wool.

Soon would I tire of all riches or honours or power that they fling; But you are my own, of my own folk, you little blue flower of the Spring!

I was around by the cherries to-day; all the cherries are pale: The world is a woman in velvet: the air is the colour of ale.

I would be dismal with all the fine pearls of the crown of a king; But I can give love-talk to you, you little blue flower of the Spring!