The Daisies

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IN THE scented bud of the morning—O, 
  When the windy grass went rippling far, 
I saw my dear one walking slow, 
  In the field where the daisies are. 

We did not laugh and we did not speak 
  As we wandered happily to and fro; 
I kissed my dear on either cheek, 
  In the bud of the morning—O. 

A lark sang up from the breezy land, 
  A lark sang down from a cloud afar, 
And she and I went hand in hand 
  In the field where the daisies are.

© James Brunton Stephens