Classic Poem

There's a flower far in the Western Land,
A flower that grows alone,
Under the rocks in the mouldering sand —
And a flower that is unknown.
A tiny thing like a blue-eyed star,
That seems to live for an hour,
Where the dark, cold, rock-thrown shadows are —
And we called it the Baby Flower.

Was it a fancy? I wonder now —
A thing that the children see?
We knew very well it was no blue bell
Where a pale blue bell should be.
Deep, and high, in the dark and damp,
Where the rock-cliff summits tower,
A tiny light, like a star of night —
And we called it the Baby Flower.

'Twas a flower that only the children found
On holidays, after school,
When they climbed the Peak from the reedy creek
And a swim in the shaded pool.
And it's certain, I know, that we let it grow,
Though it seemed but there for an hour.
But this is a thing that I do not know —
Why we called it the Baby Flower.

There was dearth and drought on the flats about
Where the wretched homesteads lay,
And the cattle died as the dams gave out,
And all was brown and grey.
It was clouds of dust — it was blazing hot,
And the milk in a night went sour.
So we loved the dark cool rock-spring spot,
And we worshipped the Baby Flower.