It is blue-butterfly day here in s
And with these sky-flakes down in
There is more unmixed color on the
Than flowers will show for days un
But these are flowers that fly and

As told to a child
When we locked up the house at nig
We always locked the flowers outsi
And cut them off from window light
The time I dreamed the door was t

But outer Space,
At least this far,
For all the fuss
Of the populace
Stays more popular

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise

A plow, they say, to plow the snow
They cannot mean to plant it, no—
Unless in bitterness to mock
At having cultivated rock.

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer br
Has dried the dew and all its rope
So that in guys it gently sways at
And its supporting central cedar p

Brown lived at such a lofty farm
That everyone for miles could see
His lantern when he did his chores
In winter after half-past three.
And many must have seen him make

Never have I been glad or sad
That there was such a thing as bad
There had to be, I understood,
For there to have been any good.
It was by having been contrasted

An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn’t with such.

The play seems out for an almost i
Don’t mind a little thing like the
The only I worry about is the sun
We’ll be all right if nothing goes