Content.

I have been wandering where the daisies grow,
    Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw
    Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw
Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow
    From timothy and yellow buttercup,
    So by their fearless beauty lifted up.

Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,
    Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep
    Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep
Over the meadows and adown the hill.
    So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,
    Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.

So beautiful is it to live, so sweet
    To hear the ripple of the bobolink,
    To smell the clover blossoms white and pink,
To feel oneself far from the dusty street,
    From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret
    Of living, and the fever of regret.

I have grown younger; I can scarce believe
    It is the same sad woman full of dreams
    Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems
I am a child again, and can deceive
    My soul with daisies, plucking one by one
    The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.

Almost with old-time eagerness I try
    My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"
    Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout;"
Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly
    I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch
    The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."

I can remember how, in childish days,
    I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall
    Must love me "passionately" or "not at all."
Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays
    It knows not what, and heedlessly demands
    The best that life can give with out-stretched hands!

Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize
    Peace above passion, and the summer life
    Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife
Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise
    Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold
    Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.