It Is A Comely Fashion To Be

O Fateful Flower Beside The Rill- The Daffodil, The Daffodil!

And Old Affront Will Stir The Heart Through Years Of Rankling Pain.

O Woman! Thou Wert Fashioned To Beguile: So Have All Sages Said, All Poets Sung.

And The Guelder Rose In A Great Stillness Dropped, And Ever Dropped, Her Wealth About Her Feet.

O Sleep, We Are Beholden To Thee, Sleep; Thou Bearest Angels To Us In The Night, Saints Out Of Heaven With Palms. Seen By Thy Light Sorrow Is Some Old Tale That Goeth Not Deep; Love Is A Pouting Child.