WHEN dandelions star the fields,
    Another alien singer, I,
Nursed upon England’s flowery wealds,
Seeking no tithe of treasured yields,
    Drop sudden from a summer sky
To where the spangled clearing spills
Its gold about your timbered hills.

A mite in splendid motley clad,
    I mark the field, I know the hour
When choicest morsels may be had;
When blooms are gay, when days are glad.
    And thistledown wafts in a shower
To dance and drift and disappear,
I, who was not, am with you here.

I cling beside the thistle head,
    I dance about your cattle’s feet,
I revel in the banquet spread
By many a blazing yellow bed,
    And feast until I am replete;
Then seek the house roof’s topmost tile
To linger yet a little while.

No ingrate I, no niggard churl—
    Tho’ what I take you well may spare—
Ere azure skies have grown to pearl,
With many a grace-note, many a skirl,
    I pay gold coin for golden fare,
And proffer an abundant fee
In long sweet bursts of melody.