I love the little daisies on the lawn Which contemplate with wide and placid eyes The blue and white enamel of the skies— The larks which sing their mattin-song at dawn, High o'er the earth, and see the new Day born, All stained with amethyst and amber dyes. I love the shadowy woodland's hidden prize Of fragrant violets, which the dewy morn Doth open gently underneath the trees To cast elusive perfume on each hour— The waving clover, full of drowsy bees, That take their murmurous way from flower to flower. Who could but think—deep in some sun-flecked glade— How God must love these things that He has made? Eastchurch, 1916.