The hills are faint in a cloudy blue,
That loses itself where the sky bends over,
The wind is shaking the orchard thro’,
And sending a quiver thro’ knee-deep clover.
The air is sweet with a strange perfume,
That comes from the depths of the woodland places,
The fields are hid in a wealth of bloom,
And white with the sweep of the ox-eye daisies!
And farther down, where the brook runs thro’,
Where the ferns are cool in the prisoned shadow,
We still may see, thro’ the morning dew,
The swell and dip of the daisied meadow.
And then when the wind across it blows,
And the wavering lines of silver follow,
We catch the gleam of her heart of gold,
While over her skims the fleet-winged swallow.
Clear and simple in white and gold,
Meadow blossom of sunlit spaces, -
The field is full as it well can hold
And white with the drift of the ox-eye daisies!