Who slumbered ’mid the daisies by a stream;
She seemed the summer day incarnate there
With her sweet, innocent, unconscious face,
So like a flower herself amid the flowers;
And I were lonely there in all that vast,
And thinking, (’twas only but a boy’s light thought,
With some deep, other thought beyond mine age,)
To wake this human summer-morn to life,
And know this June-day conscious of its joy:
But when I bent and touched her on the arm,