HE thistles on the sandy flats Are courtiers with crimson hats ;
The ragworts, growing up so straight,
Are emperors who stand in state,
And march about, so proud and bold,
In crowns of fairy-story gold.
The people passing home at night Rejoice to see the shining sight,
They quite forget the sands and sea Which are as grey as grey can be,
Nor ever heed the gulls who cry Like peevish children in the sky.
