The Point Of View

The poet stood in ecstasy Before the field with daisies sweet -- A waving sea of white and gold: "Well named," he said, "Sweet Marguerite. Fair as her own sweet self you are, You represent her better part -- White as the newest snow without, And deep within, all gold at heart." Then, stooping low with eyes all soul, He plucked one for his button-hole. The farmer leaned across the fence, A scowl was on his wrinkled brow As on the marguerites he frowned: "Gosh darn the luck, I'll du it naow; Them consarned weeds ull taak the place, They're baout tu run me off the farm; Them air ox-eyes uv gut tu go So they wont du the craps no harm." Then pulling up an armful -- big, He threw them over to the pig!