Thou lowly daisy, peerless in thy place,
Though thou dost wear no pride upon thy face.
The child doth pluck thee with a laughter light,
The shepherd lays thee ‘gainst his flute at night.
Yet though unpraised, thy soul doth sweetly shine,
As stars in skies where none may draw a line.
Let others bloom in palaces and wine,
Thy joy is born of earth — and so is mine.