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The little common people
Are laughing in the sun,
Just like the poor folk's children,
The world that overrun.
Look up, my baby Goldilocks!
O, are you quite aware
That you are but a dandelion,
My little Yellow-Hair!

 

You grow in open weather,
Close to the dear good earth--
Your eyes are all a twinkle
To hear her quiet mirth.
The lady Rose may keep her bud
From too much sun and air;
But fairest is not dearest face
My little Yellow-Hair!

 

By highways and by hedges,
Where nature's own are sent,
The like of you are plenty,
As if for good things meant.
And so I think--though Lady Rose
May wonder how I dare--
That Heaven loves the dandelion--
My little Yellow-Hair!

 

Ay, loves them, I remember,
So well, that swiftly drawn,
They grow up straight and slender,
And suddenly are gone.
Ah, get not yet the aureole
Around your forehead fair--
You are not one too many here--
My little Yellow-Hair!