OH little mushrooms with brown faces underneath
And bare white heads,
You think of summer and you think of song . . .
Why don't you think of me
In my little white bed
In the night?
You think only of your singsong and your dances,
Following your leader round and round,
You think only of the grass
And the green apples and leaves
Dropping out of the blue . . .
Why don't you think of me asleep
In my little white bed?
The wind thinks of me,
But the wind remembers
By Hilda Conkling (1910-1986)