 | Poems |  |
THE DAISY.
O Kate, 'tis the sweetest of daisies;
I open the book where it lies:
What dear distant moments it raises,
Green meadows and far summer skies!
Again down the green lane are walking
A couple; guess who they may be!
A daisy one drops in her talking—
That daisy is here, Kate, with me.
I open the book where it lies:
What dear distant moments it raises,
Green meadows and far summer skies!
Again down the green lane are walking
A couple; guess who they may be!
A daisy one drops in her talking—
That daisy is here, Kate, with me.
Now, Heaven be thank'd for its falling,
And thank'd, that I mark'd where it lay;
Though wither'd and dead, 'tis recalling
The whispers and laughs of that day.
I have but to look, Kate, upon it,
I'm sitting with you on that stile,
I hear your sweet tongue, blessings on it!
And drink in the light of your smile.
And thank'd, that I mark'd where it lay;
Though wither'd and dead, 'tis recalling
The whispers and laughs of that day.
I have but to look, Kate, upon it,
I'm sitting with you on that stile,
I hear your sweet tongue, blessings on it!
And drink in the light of your smile.
Then think, how my throbbing heart prizes
These leaves, at whose bidding, again
Before me your far-off form rises,
Your face comes, how longed-for in vain!
O dearest of flowers! what a treasure
Of old smiles and tones you restore!
Of days that flash'd by, with what pleasure!
With her I shall never see more!
These leaves, at whose bidding, again
Before me your far-off form rises,
Your face comes, how longed-for in vain!
O dearest of flowers! what a treasure
Of old smiles and tones you restore!
Of days that flash'd by, with what pleasure!
With her I shall never see more!
| Poems | |