  I have been wandering where the daisies grow, Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow From timothy and yellow buttercup, So by their fearless beauty lifted up. Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will, Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep Over the meadows and adown the hill. So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow, Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow. So beautiful is it to live, so sweet To hear the ripple of the bobolink, To smell the clover blossoms white and pink, To feel oneself far from the dusty street, From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret Of living, and the fever of regret. I have grown younger; I can scarce believe It is the same sad woman full of dreams Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems I am a child again, and can deceive My soul with daisies, plucking one by one The petals dazzling in the noonday sun. Almost with old-time eagerness I try My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup," Then, lower, "passionÉment, pas du tout;" Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much." I can remember how, in childish days, I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall Must love me "passionately" or "not at all." Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays It knows not what, and heedlessly demands The best that life can give with out-stretched hands! Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize Peace above passion, and the summer life Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold. |
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