Here the scanted daisy glows Glorious as the carmined rose; Here the hill-top's verdure mean Fair is with unfading green; Here, where sorrow still must tread, All her graves are garlanded. And still, O glad passer-by Of the fields of agony, Lower laughter's voice, and bare Thy head in the valley where Poppies bright and rustling wheat Are a desert to love's feet.