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 ofttimes, 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 blossom 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

I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch

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 outstretched 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.