The poet stood in ecstasy
Before the field with daisies sweet -
A waving sea of white and gold:
'Well named,' he said, 'Sweet Marguerite.
Fair as her own sweet self you are,
You represent her better part -
White as the newest snow without,
And deep within, all gold at heart.'
Then, stooping low with eyes all soul,
He plucked one for his button-hole.
The farmer leaned across the fence,
A scowl was on his wrinkled brow
As on the marguerites he frowned:
'Gosh darn the luck, I'll du it naow;
Them consarned weeds ull taak the place,
They're baout tu run me off the farm;
Them air ox-eyes uv gut tu go
So they wont du the craps no harm.'
Then pulling up an armful - big,
He threw them over to the pig!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem