DAISIES. 



THE hills are faint in a cloudy blue, 



That loses itself where the sky bends over, 



The wind is shaking the orchard thro , 



And sending a quiver thro knee-deep clover. 



The air is sweet with a strange perfume, 



That comes from the depths of the woodland 

 places, 



The fields are hid in a wealth of bloom, 



And white with the sweep of the ox-eye daisies ! 



And farther down, where the brook runs thro , 

 Where the ferns are cool in the prisoned 



shadow, 

 We still may see, thro the morning dew, 



The swell and dip of the daisied meadow. 



4 8 



