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!