I.

I WAS but the village weaver’s girl,
He only the hireling of a churl;
Yet into our lives there dropped a pearl.

II.

He drove the kine by meadow and dale,
And searched the hollows in every vale,
For a flower of love, to tell the tale.

III.

A spring-time daisy, waxen white,
Lay on my breast when fell the night,
And the stars shone down with a tender light.

IV.

He to the plough, and I to the loom,—
Tilling and toiling; — yet love may bloom,
And fill our hearts with its sweet perfume.

V.

Heart of mine, I have waited long;
Life and love are a poet’s song ;
Life is fleeting, but love is strong.

VI.

’T was lonely waiting, but God knew best ;
Lay me now by my love to rest,
A spring-time daisy upon my breast.
Mary E. C. Wyeth.