Sometimes it’s all alone— Sometimes in a crowd; It says a thousand bright things, But never talks aloud. Everybody loves it, And likes to have it call, But if you shouldn’t happen to, It wouldn’t care at all. First you see or hear of it, It’s a-singing,—then You may look and listen, But it never sings again. THE LOVELY CHILD Lilies are both pure and fair, Growing ’midst the roses there— Roses, too, both red and pink, Are quite beautiful, I think. But of all bright blossoms—best— Purest—fairest—loveliest,— Could there be a sweeter thing Than a primrose, blossoming? THE YELLOWBIRD Hey! my little Yellowbird, What you doing there? Like a flashing sun-ray, Flitting everywhere: Dangling down the tall weeds And the hollyhocks, And the lordly sunflowers Along the garden-walks. Ho! my gallant Golden-bill, Pecking ’mongst the weeds, You must have for breakfast Golden flower-seeds: Won’t you tell a little fellow What you have for _tea_?— ’Spect a peck o’ yellow, mellow Pippin on the tree. ENVOY When but a little boy, it seemed My dearest rapture ran In fancy ever, when I dreamed I was a man—a man! Now—sad perversity!—my theme Of rarest, purest joy Is when, in fancy blest, I dream I am a little boy. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Armazindy, by James Whitcomb Riley