Singer of priceless melody,
Underguerdoned chorister of air,
Who from the lithe top of the tree
Pourest at will thy music rare,
As if a sudden brook laughed down the hill-side there.

The purple-blossomed fields of grass,
Waved sea-like to the idle wind,
Thick daisies that the stars surpass,
Being as fair and far more kind;
All sweet uncultured things thy wild notes bring to mind.

When that enraptured overflow
Of singing into silence dies,
Thy rapid fleeting pinions show
Where all thy spell of sweetness lies
Gathered in one small nest from the wide earth and skies.

Unconscious of thine audience,
Careless of praises as of blame,
In simpleness and innocence,
Thy gentle life pursues its aim,
So tender and serene, that we might blush for shame.

The patience of thy brooding wings
That droop in silence day by day,
The little crowd of callow things
That joy for weariness repay,
These are the living spring, thy song the fountain's spray.

I watch her in the corner there,
As, restless, bold, and unafraid,
She slips and floats along the air
Till all her subtile house is made.

Her home, her bed, her daily food
All from that hidden store she draws;
She fashions it and knows it good,
By instinct's strong and sacred laws.

No tenuous threads to weave her nest,
She seeks and gathers there or here;
But spins it from her faithful breast,
Renewing still, till leaves are sere.

Then, worn with toil, and tired of life,
In vain her shining traps are set.
Her frost hath hushed the insect strife
And gilded flies her charm forget.

But swinging in the snares she spun,
She sways to every winter wind:
Her joy, her toil, her errand done,
Her corse the sport of storms unkind.

Poor sister of the spinster clan!
I too from out my store within
My daily life and living plan,
My home, my rest, my pleasure spin.

I know thy heart when heartless hands
Sweep all that hard-earned web away:
Destroy its pearled and glittering bands,
And leave thee homeless by the way.

I know thy peace when all is done.
Each anchored thread, each tiny knot,
Soft shining in the autumn sun;
A sheltered, silent, tranquil lot.

I know what thou hast never known,
-Sad presage to a soul allowed;-
That not for life I spin, alone.
But day by day I spin my shroud.

Fair and peaceful daisies,
Smiling in the grass,
Who hath sung your praises?
Poets by you pass,
And I alone am left to celebrate your mass.

In the summer morning,
Through the fields ye shine,
Joyfully adorning
Earth with grace divine,
And pour, from sunny hearts, fresh gladness into mine.

Lying in the meadows,
Like the milky way,
From nocturnal shadows
Glad to fall away,
And live a happy life in the wide light of day.

Bees about you humming
Pile their yellow store,
Winds in whispers coming
Teach you love's sweet lore,
For your reluctant lips still worshipping the more.

Birds with music laden
Shower their songs on you;
And the rustic maiden,
Standing in the dew,
By your alternate leaves tells if her love be true.

Little stars of glory!
From your amber eyes
No inconstant story
Of her love should rise!
And yet 'He loves me not!' is oft the sad surprise.

Crowds of milk-white blossoms!
Noon's concentred beams
Glowing in your bosoms;
So, by living streams
In heaven, I think the light of flowers immortal gleams.

When your date is over,
Peacefully ye fade,
With the fragrant clover
And sweet grasses laid,
In odors for a pall beneath the orchard shade.

Happy, happy daisies!
Would I were like you,
Pure from human praises,
Fresh with morning dew,
And ever in my heart to heaven's clear sunshine true!