BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 



I NEVER see a young hand hold 

 The starry bunch of white and gold, 

 But something warm and fresh will start 

 About the region of my heart. 

 My smile expires into a sigh, 

 I feel a struggling in the eye, 

 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, 

 Till rolling tears have won their way ; 

 For soul and brain will travel back 



Through memory's chequered mazes 

 To days when I but trod life's track 



For buttercups and daisies. 



Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare, 

 Of sober speech and silver hair, 

 Who carry counsel, wise and sage. 

 With all the gravity of age — 

 Oh, say, do ye not like to hear 

 The accents ringing in your ear. 



