The golden dandelion stars
Are surely loved of God the most
Of all the blossoms since He made
Them an innumerable host.

From many an oriel of the sky
Angels must look with raptured face
Upon those lovely, lowly flowers
That we have scorned as commonplace.

They fade before their youth is past;
Their silver heads rise like a prayer,
Not for a truer angel love,
But for a tenderer human care.

In simple things a beauty lies
That lustres all our onward way,
And love speaks clear and constantly
In language of the common day.