Our little Paul has grown a daisy white.
All snowy frills of petals soft and fair,
It stands erect for him in the Spring air.
Nought gave a child, I think, more pure delight.
He kneels by it each morning, brown and slight.
Its small still life he stoops to know and share.
I hear him asking it when none is there
If it shuts up and sleeps through the long night.
O happy flower, in lovesome solitude,
Calling a child to worship morn by morn,
Has the earth breathed you in remembrance
Of all the daisies man has ever viewed?
And do they dream again for him, new-born
In the frank wonder of Paul's baby glance?
First published in The Bulletin, 13 November 1924
