How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
O fateful flower beside the rill- The Daffodil, the daffodil!
And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
Children bring their own love with them when they come.
It is a comely fashion to be glad; Joy is the grace we say to God.
There's no dew left on the daisies and clover; there's no rain left in heaven.