From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret
Of living, and the fever of regret.
I have grown younger; I can scarce believe
It is the same sad woman full of dreams
Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems
I am a child again, and can deceive
My soul with daisies, plucking, one by one,
The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.
Almost with old-time eagerness I try
My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"