Ellen Russell Emerson

While the butter-cups toss golden heads, Consequential bees alight, Upon the downy saffron beds Of the dandelion, Fit for kings to lie on;There, a lazy butterfly, Like a thing adrift from Eden,

Childhood's the soul's first gala-day.

The loveless are the unblest, Frosts transfix their grief, Like a wreck on a reef.

Here and there a cloud is floating, White and fair as a nun in prayer.

But "God was still behind the skies," As stricken Agatha once had said, And He anoints the aiming spear Of grief, and blesses the bowing head.