Dandelion by Ida Celia Whittier

The yellow dandelions, discouraged, bloom In city yards, sprinkled with dusty grass.
Even like one of them, O thought of gloom!
My life must pass.
The dandelion sees the lilac toss,
Proud in her purple dress, a haughty head;
In her cold heart there lurks no sense of loss,
No dream lies dead.
But the wild dandelion remembers well
Dim dreams of beauty in the western plains,
Sloping to where the sunset's glories tell
Of golden gains.
And dreams of mountain peaks, divinely high,
With clouded brows, and bosoms cold with snow;
Of canyons, darkly grand, where echoes sigh,
And pure streams flow.
Of oceans rolling ever, wave on wave,
With depths like forest green, and snowy crests;
Of ocean caves, where shadowy mermaids lave
Their snowy breasts.
She sees the gardens of the west, that yield
Miles of the fairest roses, purely white,
Mocking the distant mountain's snowy field,
Dazzlingly bright.
And, sweetest dream of all, the grassy hill,
Cool in the twilight hour, and calm as sleep
Where dandelions bloom, and wild birds trill,
And wild vines creep.
Ah, to be there, among the poppy's flames,
Where daisies star the violets' field of blue!
Far from the city yard, whose primness blames
Her sunny hue.
Breathing the atmosphere divine.

By Ida Celia Whittier