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!”