James Stephens

The Daisies

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.