Hope
Hope is the floss of thistle
That floats by in the air
Bearing its precious missile
On wings of silken hair.
Hope is the blue egg lying
In nest of straw and clay
Which in a month is flying
And singing all the day.
Hope is the plant Narcissus
Beneath the winter's snow
That when the Spring's sun kisses
Will stir itself and grow.
Hope is the caterpillar
Whose hammock swings on high
That will come forth a miller
Or gorgeous butterfly.
