XIV
Purple Clover
There is a flower that bees prefer,And butterflies desire;To gain the purple democratThe humming-birds aspire.
And whatsoever insect pass,A honey bears awayProportioned to his several dearthAnd her capacity.
Her face is rounder than the moon,And ruddier than the gownOf orchis in the pasture,Or rhododendron worn.
She doth not wait for June;Before the world is greenHer sturdy little countenanceAgainst the wind is seen,
Contending with the grass,Near kinsman to herself,For privilege of sod and sun,Sweet litigants for life.
And when the hills are full,And newer fashions blow,Doth not retract a single spiceFor pang of jealousy.
Her public is the noon,Her providence the sun,Her progress by the bee proclaimedIn sovereign, swerveless tune.
The bravest of the host,Surrendering the last,Nor even of defeat awareWhen cancelled by the frost.