by Hilda Conkling
Snow-white shawls . . .
Golden faces . . .
Countryside, hillside, wayside people . . .
Selling dew and yellow flour
To make bread
For some city of elves. . . .
by Emily Dickinson
The daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
“Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?”
“Because, sir, love is sweet!”