The Daisies

IN THE scented bud of the morning—O, 

  When the windy grass went rippling far, 

I saw my dear one walking slow, 

  In the field where the daisies are. 

We did not laugh and we did not speak         

  As we wandered happily to and fro; 

I kissed my dear on either cheek, 

  In the bud of the morning—O. 

A lark sang up from the breezy land, 

  A lark sang down from a cloud afar,         

And she and I went hand in hand 

  In the field where the daisies are.