Bright little dandelion,
Downy, yellow face,
Peeping up among the grass
With such gentle grace;
Minding not the April wind
Blowing rude and cold;
Brave little dandelion,
With a heart of gold.
Meek little dandelion,
Changing into curls
At the magic touch of these
Merry boys and girls.
When they pinch thy dainty throat,
Strip thy dress of green,
On thy soft and gentle face
Not a cloud is seen.
Poor little dandelion,
Now all gone to seed,
Scattered roughly by the wind
Like a common weed.
Thou hast lived thy little life
Smiling every day;
Who could do a better thing
In a better way?
--_Anon._