This is the baby who doesn't do a thing,
This is the lady who loves to wear a ring,
This is their big sister, this is another,
And this stout thumb is their great sturdy brother.
by John Vance Cheney
" Step softly; where your foot is was a flower.
Perhaps upon June's dearest grave you tread. "
It follows me, haunts every autumn hour,
The wind voice talking of the blossom dead.