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12
'The poppy makes me sleepy too,
So I will choose some other—
But these two flowers—what shall I do?
I want them both, my mother.'
'And I, my gentle child, want one,
And surely you 'll not grieve me,
And take the pretty ones—and none
But this dull poppy leave me.'
'No, mother—no—the rose is thine—
How sweet—here only breathe it;
—I choose the violet for mine,
—Because—it grew beneath it.'
THE THUNDER STORM.
Look! the black cloud rises high—
Now it spreads along the sky—
See! the quivering lightnings fly—
Hark! the thunder 'll roar
