40 JDatsj. 
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, 
