Flowers - W. H. Davies

Flowers by W. H. Davies 

What favourite flowers are mine, I cannot say -

My fancy changes with the summer's day.

Sometimes I think, agreeing with the Bees,

That my best flowers are those tall apple trees,

Who give a Bee his cyder while in bloom,

And keep me waiting till their apples come.

Sometimes I think the Columbine has won,

Who hangs her head and never looks the Sun Straight in the face.

And now the Golden Rod Beckons me over with a graceful nod;

Shaped like a sheaf of corn, her ruddy skin

Drinks the Sun dry, and leaves his splendour thin.

Sometimes I think the Rose must have her place -

And then the Lily shakes her golden dice Deep in a silver cup, to win or lose.

So I go on, from Columbine to Rose, From Marigold to Flock, from Flock to Thrift -

Till nothing but my garden stones are left.

But when I see the dimples in her face, All filled with tender moss in every place -

Ah, then I think, when all is said and done,

My favourite flower must be a Mossy Stone!