Seeds

... At noon, when harvest colors die
 On the pale azure of the sky,
 And dreams through dozing grasses creep
 Of winds that are themselves asleep,
 Rapt Shelley found the airy ghost
 Of that bright flower the spring loves most,
 And ere one silvery ray was blown
 From its full disk made it his own...

 Annie Rankin Annan [1848-1925]