Сара Орн Джеветт (Sarah Orne Jewett)

Discontent

Down in a field, one day in June,
    The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one who tried to hide herself,
    And drooped, that pleasant weather.

A robin who had flown too high
    And felt a little lazy
Was resting near this buttercup
    Who wished she were a daisy.

The daisies grow so trig and tall,—
    She always had a passion
For wearing frills around her neck
    In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be
    The same old tiresome color—
While daisies dress in gold and white,
    Although their gold is duller.

"Dear robin," said this sad young flower,
    "Perhaps you'd not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me
    Some day when you are flying."

"You silly thing!" the robin said,
    "I think you must be crazy.
I'd rather be my honest self
    Than any made-up daisy.

"You're nicer in your own bright gown,—
    The little children love you.
Be the best buttercup you can,
    And think no flower above you.

"Though swallows leave me out of sight,
    We'd better keep our places;
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
    With one too many daisies.

"Look bravely up into the sky
    And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
    Just here, where you are growing."

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