A blushing little Mayflower
Turned away her head,
Too polite to let a weed
Hear a word she said.
“I don’t think it nice at all,
(I would make a fuss),
Goldenrod should bloom, of course,
In the spring with us!
“It is hard to wait so long,
Till midsummer hours;
I should get discouraged, quite,
Waiting so for flowers.”
Near the wall a modest plant
Twinkled in the dew;
She heard all that had been said,--
Mayflower never knew.
Soon she whispered to a robin;
He her secret told,--
“All this waiting means a changing
Into sunny gold!”