The Tulip (Caveat regina)

Seeing, above dark spikes of green, Your great bold flowers of gold and red, I think of some young heathen queen With blazing crown upon her head,-- Some beautiful barbaric thing, Clothed in rich garments, emerald zoned, Whom simple folk, half worshiping And half in fear, have crowned and throned. You will not deign to give the breeze The slightest nod as it goes by; You will not move a leaf to please The drowsy gorgeous butterfly. With measureless nonchalance and pride, You take the humming bird's caress; The brown melodious bee must bide Your haughty, arrogant willfulness! You will not even stoop to hear The whisper of the adoring grass; The violets droop their heads in fear, The beetles grumble as they pass. Beware, O queen, some day ere long All these may drop their fealty, And for redress of causeless wrong Uprise in passionate mutiny. Ah, then what rapturous sound of wings, Applauding when your throne goes down! What cheering when the rude breeze springs, And whisks away your withered crown!