All fresh with daisies and with rye,
And something purer, brighter, breathes
Than the mere tints of earth and sky.
Her dainty head with grace is poised,
And 'neath her hat-brim's shade I see
The soft, dark eyes, the pure child-face
That hold so much of joy for me!
Her feet, as loath to tread the bloom
Of flowers and of field-grass bright,
Fall lightly as she maketh way