Ode To A Dandelion
Chameleon on green rustic fields ye lie
unplanted rosette by young hands that pluck
away thy priestly crown, from orient grown,
gold tiara gracing thy perennial brow.
Ye bear no mane as dandy lion might
though name thou hold, ye lion’s tooth,
yet semblance lieth not in all thy form,
but in the leafy floral dress forsooth.