The violet blooms in a shady place
Where the sun comes peeping through;
The hare-bell grows on gray old rocks
And shows its robes of blue.
The May-flower grows on a wooded hill
At the foot of the green old pines,
Where the ferns and moss in clusters show
And the checker-berry twines.
These all grow in the fairest bowers;
There is no room for the daisy flowers.
So the daisy grows by the dusty road,
Sweet and sunny and shy,
Lifting its pretty, modest head
To nod to each passer-by.
“Why do you grow by the roadside, dear?
It is all dust and sand;
Come to the violet’s shady nook,
Or join the Mayflower’s band.”
But the daisy said: “The violet’s place
Is better for her, you see;
And the May-flower’s place is better for her;
And mine is the best for me.”
