"This is simply quite amazing,
Here I stand within the sod,
As a waving yellow daisy,
Who no more shall ever plod.
"Of fate or God am I the seed,
So bright and pretty and gay?
Or of Satan, such a weed?
I pray not!" she had to say.
Soon a bee began to hover,
As it kissed her pretty face.
What a happy little lover,
On its singing wings of lace.
Then came a caterpillar,
Chewing all her leaves to shreds,
Leaving her to wilter,
Down among the flowerbeds.
So the sun began to burn,
Upon her golden yellow spray,
But she found she could not turn,
Instead to face the other way.
In one day did she grow old,
Whisper dry and all alone,
Bowed in age, frail and cold,
Like a poor, tired, nodding crone.
Happy was she as a child,
Gayer still a simple flower,
Now she's buried in the wild,
With pretty daisies for her bower.
THE SONG OF CAROL
Sing to me the Song of Carol,
Brightest ribbons in a breeze,
Dancing bannerettes. A fair! All
Snapping colors midst the trees.
Such wonder that the day denies,
In tinted white with blue between.
Reflected spell, bound in the eyes,
No summer, scudded cloudy scene.