“The Foxglove by the cottage door Looks down on Joe, and Joe is four.
The Foxglove by the garden gate Looks down on Joan, and Joan is eight.
“I’m glad we’re small,” said Joan, “I love To see inside the fox’s glove, Where taller people cannot see, And all is ready for the bee; The door is wide, the feast is spread, The walls are dotted rosy red.” “And only little people know How nice it looks in there,” said Joe. Said Joan, “The upper rooms are locked; A bee went buzzing up—he knocked, But no one let him in, so then He bumbled gaily down again.” “Oh dear!” sighed Joe, “if only we Could grow as little as that bee, We too might room by room explore The Foxglove by the cottage door.”
The Foxglove by the garden gate Looked down and smiled on Four and Eight.”