Now dandelions in the short, new grass,
Through all their rapid stages daily pass;
No bee yet visits them; each has its place,
Still near enough to see the other’s face.
Unkenn’d the bud, so like the grass and ground
In our old country yards where thickest found;
Some morn it opes a little golden sun,
And sets in its own west when day is done.
In few days more’t is old and silvery gray,
And though so close to earth it made its stay,
Lo! now it findeth wings and lightly flies,
A spirit form, till on the sight it dies.