There's No Dew Left On The Daisies

O Sleep, We Are Beholden To Thee, Sleep; Thou Bearest Angels To Us In The Night, Saints Out Of Heaven With Palms. Seen By Thy Light Sorrow Is Some Old Tale That Goeth Not Deep; Love Is A Pouting Child.

It Is A Comely Fashion To Be Glad; Joy Is The Grace We Say To God.

Such A Slender Moon, Going Up And Up, Waxing So Fast From Night To Night, And Swelling Like An Orange Flower-bud, Bright, Fated, Methought, To Round As To A Golden Cup, And Hold To My Two Lips Life's Best Of Wine.

And The Guelder Rose In A Great Stillness Dropped, And Ever Dropped, Her Wealth About Her Feet.

The Moon Looks Upon Many Night Flowers; The Night Flowers See But One Moon.