The Daisy

I know not why thy beauty should

Remind me of the cold, dark grave—

Thou Flower, as fair as Moonlight, when

She kissed the mouth of a black Cave.

All other Flowers can coax the Bees,

All other Flowers are sought but thee:

Dost thou remind them all of Death,

Sweet Flower, as thou remindest me?

Thou seemest like a blessèd ghost,

So white, so cold, though crowned with gold;

Among these glazèd Buttercups,

And purple Thistles, rough and bold.

When I am dead, nor thought of more,

And gone from human memory—

Grow you on my forsaken grave,

And win for me a stranger’s sigh.

A day or two the lilies fade;

A month, ay less, no friends are seen:

Then, claimant to forgotten graves,

Share my lost place with the wild green.