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3§afej. 
She dwells amid the world’s dark ways. 
Pure as in childhood’s hours; 
And all her thoughts are poetry, 
And all her words are flowers. 
Mrs. M. E. Hewitt . 
’Twas when the world was in its prime, 
When meadows green and woodlands wild 
Were strewn with flowers, in sweet spring-time, 
And everywhere the Daisies smiled. 
When undisturbed the ring-doves cooed, 
While lovers sang each other’s praises, 
As in embowered lanes they wooed, 
Or on some bank white o’er with Daisies: 
While Love went by with muffled feet, 
Singing, “ The Daisies they are sweet.” 
Unfettered then he roamed abroad, 
And as he willed it past the hours— 
Now lingering idly by the road, 
Now loitering by the wayside flowers; 
For what cared he about the morrow? 
Too young to sigh, too old to fear— 
No time had he to think of sorrow, 
Who found the Daisies everywhere; 
Still sang he, through each green retreat, 
The Daisies they are very sweet.” 
With many a maiden did he dally, 
Like a glad brook that turns away— 
Here in, there out, across the valley. 
With every pebble stops to play; 
Taking no note of space nor time, 
Through flowers, the banks adorning, 
