The ragwort

The 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 even heed the gulls who cry

Like peevish children in the sky.