One day I heard a little lady say,
“O morning-glory, would that I were you!
Twining around the porch that lovely way,
Where you will see my dear one coming through.
So fair you are, he’ll surely notice you,
And wait perhaps a moment, just to praise
The clinging prettiness of all your ways,
And tender tint of melting white and blue.
O morning-glory, would that I were you!”
I heard the little lady’s lover say,
“O rose-white daisy, dying in the dew,
Breathing your half-crushed, fainting life away
Under her footstep,—would that I were you!
For when how cruelly she wounded you,
She turns to see in pitying distress,
With murmured words of sorrowing tenderness
Close to her lips your bruised leaves she will press;—
O drooping daisy, would that I were you!”