 | Sketches from Life in Dixie |  |
60
TO THE DAISY.
No, the cold damp earth could not restrain thee,
Nor the bleak north winds retard thy coming;
For first on the green where the lambs are running,
And down where the rushing brooklet doth flee,
In its musical cadence on to the sea,
Thy sweet face has been modestly turning
Its delicate features up to the sunning,
And throwing its fragrance over the lea,
In a wild and most exuberant way.
Oh, I love thee, wee blue eyed daisy fair!
And I wish thou might blow out there for aye.
Filled with loveliness, perfuming the air,
And alluring me from the broad highway,
To gather garlands for my lady fair.
Nor the bleak north winds retard thy coming;
For first on the green where the lambs are running,
And down where the rushing brooklet doth flee,
In its musical cadence on to the sea,
Thy sweet face has been modestly turning
Its delicate features up to the sunning,
And throwing its fragrance over the lea,
In a wild and most exuberant way.
Oh, I love thee, wee blue eyed daisy fair!
And I wish thou might blow out there for aye.
Filled with loveliness, perfuming the air,
And alluring me from the broad highway,
To gather garlands for my lady fair.
Thou sit'st upon the meadow's lap of green,
Like smiles upon the face of a sleeping babe,
And the zephyrs sighing through the everglade,
Waft thy perfumes to the winding stream
That lies at thy feet a beautiful sheen;
By the skill of the Master cunningly made,
To catch the likeness of my dark eyed maid
As she gathers her garlands there, I ween;
Thy Circean beauty bewilders me,
For truly, I am curious to know
Why the most delicate flowers that be,
Upon lawn, heather and bough, should first blow,
Fairest and sweetest in their modesty,
Of all the beautiful flowers that grow.
Like smiles upon the face of a sleeping babe,
And the zephyrs sighing through the everglade,
Waft thy perfumes to the winding stream
That lies at thy feet a beautiful sheen;
By the skill of the Master cunningly made,
To catch the likeness of my dark eyed maid
As she gathers her garlands there, I ween;
Thy Circean beauty bewilders me,
For truly, I am curious to know
Why the most delicate flowers that be,
Upon lawn, heather and bough, should first blow,
Fairest and sweetest in their modesty,
Of all the beautiful flowers that grow.
| Sketches from Life in Dixie | |