I would be dismal with all the fine pearls of the crown of a king; br But I can talk plainly to you, you little blue flower of the Spring! br Here in the heart of September the world that I walk in is full br Of the hot happy sound of the shearing, the rude heavy scent of the wool. br Soon would I tire of all riches or honours or power that they fling; br But you are my own, of my own folk, you little blue flower of the Spring! br I was around by the cherries to-day; all the cherries are pale: br The world is a woman in velvet: the air is the colour of ale.