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    by Edith Nesbit
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    When I was little and good
    I walked in the dappled wood
    Where light white windflowers grew,
    And hyacinths heavy and blue.

    The windflowers fluttered light,
    Like butterflies white and bright;
    The bluebells tremulous stood
    Deep in the heart of the wood.

    I gathered the white and the blue,
    The wild wet woodland through,
    With hands too silly and small
    To clasp and carry them all.

    Some dropped from my hands and died
    By the home-road's grassy side;
    And those that my fond hands pressed
    Died even before the rest.
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