Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, <br />And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime <br />throws <br />In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays <br />Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days; <br />But what is the lily and all of the rest <br />Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest <br />That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew <br />Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew? <br />I never set eyes on a clover-field now, <br />Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, <br />But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane <br />As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again; <br />And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream, <br />Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam <br />With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love <br />Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above. <br /> <br />And so I love clover--it seems like a part <br />Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart; <br />And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow <br />And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now; <br />And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die, <br />To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye, <br />And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom <br />While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clover/
