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Pushing daisies

At evening when I go to bedI see the stars shine overhead

They are the little daisies white

That dot the meadow of the Night.
And often while I’m dreaming so,

Across the sky the moon will go;

It is a lady, sweet and fair,

Who comes to gather daisies there.
For, when at morning

I arise,

There’s not a star left in the skies;

She’s picked them all and dropped them down

Into the meadows of the town…

by Evaleen Stein