Classic Poem

This swaying, slender, summer thing
The hoiden wind dishevels
Where pinks and poppies are a-wing
Along my garden-levels —

This is the homely feverfew
I sowed in wild disorder,
A scattering handful heedless threw
To whiten bed and border.

For she 's a magical white flower:
Pressed close between your fingers,
She gives you back an old, lost hour
Where fadeless beauty lingers.
. . . . . . .

Dear child of me! How long have you
In this still heart been lying,
Who loved the fragrant feverfew,
And never thought of dying!