Till the June should come again!
Didn't want to be a tree,
Didn't envy you or me,
Asked no favor ere life's close
But the chance to be a rose,
Oh, that little rose that died,
How it tried! Oh, how it tried!——'"
"U—m—m," mused her father. "But I thought you said it was about 'Love.' This is all about 'roses.'"
"But it is about 'Love!'" flared Daphne. "The rose part is just— just figurative! You have to do that in poetry! Make most everything figurative, or else it wouldn't be—be delicate." Quite palpably her upper lip began to tremble. "Why, didn't you 98 like it?" she whispered. "Didn't you like it at all, I mean?"
"Oh, yes," hurried her father, "I liked it very much, oh very! Though personally on these crape-y poems I must confess I like some jolly refrain added like 'Yo-ho and a bottle of rum!——'"