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.