Ashtabula Weekly Telegraph

Select Poetry,
From the Overland Monthly,
The Fortune of the Daisy.
Of what are you dreaming, my pretty maid,
With your feet in the summer clover?
Ah! You need not hang your modest head—
I know 'tis about your lover.
I know by the blushes on your cheek
Though you strive to hide the token;
And I know because you will not speak
The thought that is unspoken.
You are counting the petals one by one,
Of your dainty, dewy posies.
To and from their number, when 'tis done,
The secret it discloses.
You would see if he comes with gold and land
The lover that is to woo you;
Or only bring his heart in his hand,
For your heart and your hand to sue you.
Beware, beware, what you say and do,
Fair maid, with your feet in clover;
For the poorest man that comes to woo
May be the richest lover.
Since not by outward show and sign
Can you reckon worth's true measure,
Who only is rich in soul and mind,
May offer the greatest treasure.
Ah! There never was power in gems alone
To bind a brow from aching;
Nor strength enough in a jeweled zone
To hold a heart from breaking.
Then be not caught by the sheen and glare
Of worldly wealth and splendor;
But speak him soft and speak him fair,
Whose heart is true and tender.
You may wear your virtues as a crown,
As you walk through life serenely
And grace your simple rustic gown
With a grace more than queenly.
Though only one for you shall care,
One only speak your praises,
And you never wear in your shining hair
A richer flower than daisies.