To Daisies Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: AABCCDBEFEGGHH DDIIIDFFDFDDDJDJ DDEDEDKDLDLDLDD MNNGCGDMCOOPQPMQ

Ah drops of gold in whitening flameA
Burning we know your lovely nameA
Daisies that little children pullB
Like all weak things over the strongC
Ye do not know your power for wrongC
And much abuse your feeblenessD
Daisies that little children pullB
As ye are weak be mercifulE
O hide your eyes they are to meF
Beautiful insupportablyE
Or be but conscious ye are fairG
And I your loveliness could bearG
But being fair so without artH
Ye vex the silted memories of my heartH
-
As a pale ghost yearning straysD
With sundered gazeD
'Mid corporal presences that areI
To it impalpable such a barI
Sets you more distant than the morning starI
Such wonder is on you and amazeD
I look and marvel if I beF
Indeed the phantom or are yeF
The light is on your innocenceD
Which fell from meF
The fields ye still inhabit whenceD
My world acquainted treading straysD
The country where I did commenceD
And though ye shine to me so nearJ
So close to gross and visible senseD
Between us lies impassable year on yearJ
-
To other time and far off placeD
Belongs your beauty silent thusD
Though to other naught you tellE
To me your ranks are rumorousD
Of an ancient miracleE
Vain does my touch your petals grazeD
I touch you not and though ye blossom hereK
Your roots are fast in alienated daysD
Ye there are anchored while Time's streamL
Has swept me past them your white waysD
And infantile delights do seemL
To look in on me like a faceD
Dead and sweet come back through dreamL
With tears because for old embraceD
It has no armsD
-
These hands did toyM
Children with you when I was childN
And in each other's eyes we smiledN
Not yours not yours the grievous fairG
ApparellingC
With which you wet mine eyes you wearG
Ah me the garment of the graceD
I wove you when I was a boyM
O mine and not the year's your stolen SpringC
And since ye wear itO
Hide your sweet selves I cannot bear itO
For when ye break the cloven earthP
With your young laughter and endearmentQ
No blossomy carillon 'tis of mirthP
To me I see my slaughtered joyM
Bursting its cerementQ

Francis Thompson



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