By Edith Nesbit

WE wandered down the meadow way–
The path beside the hedge is shady,–
You did not see the silver may,
You talked of Art, my sweet blind Lady.

You talked of values and of tone,
Of square touch and New English crazes;
Could you not see we were alone,
Where God’s hand paints the world with daisies?

You spoke of Paris and of Rome
And in the hedgerow’s thorny shadows
A white-throat sang a song of home,
Of English lanes and English meadows.

You talked about the aims of Art
And how all Art must needs be moral;
I heard you with a sinking heart
And watched the waving crimson sorrel.

For when I found you had not heard
The song–nor seen the dewy clover,
I cared no more to find the word
Should make you hear and see a lover!

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