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James Stephens

(9 February 1882 - 26 December 1950 / Dublin)

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.

Submitted: Saturday, March 27, 2010
Edited: Thursday, May 10, 2012

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