“O rose-white daisy, dying in the dew,
Breathing your half-crushed, fainting life away
Under her footstep,—would that I were you!
For when how cruelly she wounded you,
She turns to see in pitying distress,
With murmured words of sorrowing tenderness
Close to her lips your bruised leaves she will press;—
O drooping daisy, would that I were you!”