Purple Clover

There is a flower that bees prefer,
And butterflies desire;
To gain the purple democrat
The humming-birds aspire.
,
And whatsoever insect pass,
A honey bears away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her capacity.
,
Her face is rounder than the moon,
And ruddier than the gown
Of orchis in the pasture,
Or rhododendron worn.
,
She doth not wait for June;
Before the world is green
Her sturdy little countenance
Against the wind is seen,
,
Contending with the grass,
Near kinsman to herself,
For privilege of sod and sun,
Sweet litigants for life.
,
And when the hills are full,
And newer fashions blow,
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy.
,
Her public is the noon,
Her providence the sun,
Her progress by the bee proclaimed
In sovereign, swerveless tune.
,
The bravest of the host,
Surrendering the last,
Nor even of defeat aware
When cancelled by the frost.