But yet had left the recollection of that scene—
The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt
And picked the daisies on the roadside green.
I looked. The old familiar road was there—
A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;
And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare
That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.
“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child
Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;
“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh