I like the flowers very much--they're pleasant as can be For bunches on the table, and to pick and wear and see, But still it doesn't seem quite fair--it does seem very queer-- They don't do what they're named for--not at any time of year! MARGARET WIDDEMER THE FLOWER-SCHOOL When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down, The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos. Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee. Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground. They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner. When the rains come down they have their holidays. Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white. Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are. Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry? Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their mother as I have my own. RABINDRANATH TAGORE IRIS FLOWERS My mother let me go with her, (I had been good all day), To see the iris flowers that bloom In gardens far away. We walked and walked through hedges green, Through rice-fields empty still, To where we saw a garden gate Beneath the farthest hill. She pointed out the rows of "flowers";-- I saw no planted things, But white and purple butterflies Tied down with silken strings. They strained and fluttered in the breeze, So eager to be free; I begged the man to let them go, But mother laughed at me. She said that they could never rise, Like birds, to heaven so blue. But even mothers do not know Some things that children do. That night, the flowers untied themselves And softly stole away, To fly in sunshine round my dreams Until the break of day. MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA IF I WERE A FAIRY I'd love to sit on a clover-top And sway, And swing and shake, till the dew would drop In spray; To croon a song for the bumble-bee To leave his golden honey with me, And sway and swing, till the wind would stop To play. I'd weave a hammock of spider-thread Loose-hung, Where grasses nodded above my head And swung. And all day long, while the hammock swayed I'd twine and tangle the sun and shade, Till the crickets' song, "It is time for bed!" Was sung.