modestly showing above the ground, and now they're a forest primeval.
The murmuring pines and the hemlock aren't in it with this impenetrable
jungle liberally blotched with yellow, this so-called sunflower patch."

"What would you call it," she said, "if you didn't call it sunflower?"

"I should call it a beast of prey," I said. "A sunflower seems to me to
be more like a tiger than anything else."

"It was a steam-roller about a minute ago."

"Yes," I said, "it was--a tigerish steam-roller."

"How interesting," she said. "I have not met one quite like that."

"That," I said, "is because your eye isn't properly poetical. It's
blocked with chicken-food and other utilitarian objects."

"I must," she said, "consult an oculist. Perhaps he will give me glasses
which will unblock my eye and make me see tigers in the garden."

"No," I said, "you will have to do it for yourself. For such an eye as
yours even the best oculists are unavailing."

"I might," she said, "improve if I read poetry at home. Has any poet
written about sunflowers?"

"Yes," I said, "BLAKE did. He was quite mad, and he wrote a poem to a
sunflower: 'Ah! Sunflower! Weary of time.' That's how it begins."