Oliver Herford

The Outing

My Bed is like a little Bark,
The hatch is battened down,
And in the basket cabin dark
I sail away from Town.
Now, when they lift the lid, a scene
Of wonder meets my eyes,
Tall waving Feather-Dusters green,
That seem to touch the skies.
And over all the Ground is spread
A Rug of Emerald sweet,
Most deep enough to hide my head
And tickly to my feet.
And here’s the Cow, calm-eyed stands she,
The Genie of the Jug,
Beneath the Feather-Duster Tree,
And eats the Emerald Rug.