Theology

The blade is sharp, the reaper stout,
    And every daisy dies.
Their souls are fluttering about -
    We call them butterflies.

In Fairyland

The fairy poet takes a sheet
    Of moonbeam, silver white;
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
    His pen a point of light.

My love I know is fairer far
    Than his, (though she is fair),
And we should dwell where fairies are -
    For I could praise her there.