Classic Poem

The daisy is fine and fair
With her golden crown on,
And her tangle of lint white hair
And her green spring gown on.
And morning and Maytime are stored
In deep horns of honey—
If the bee steal the clover's hoard
The days are still sunny.
The buttercup holds out her disk,
Atop of the grasses,
To catch, at her waxen risk
The sunbeam that passes.
But the dandelion's so bright,
One almost might fancy
He was fashioned out of the light
By some necromancy.

How softly the south wind curled
As it touched me this minute—
Oh, how sweet is the world,
How good to be in it!