IN
HE scented bud of the morning—O, When the windy grass went rippling far, I saw my dear one walking slow, In the field where the daisies are. We did not laugh and we did not speak As we wandered happily to and fro; I kissed my dear on either cheek, In the bud of the morning—O. A lark sang up from the breezy land, A lark sang down from a cloud afar, And she and I went hand in hand In the field where the daisies are.
