She was of Herrick's golden kind

She was of Herrick's golden kind,

Clear Devon to the end;

Each trick of jest was in her blood

And hers to save or spend.

So gay a thing! Now low in dust

The loveliness of her;

In lane, in house, her laughter yet

Makes a frail, tender stir.

Hers were the very quips of spring;

And often we looked about,

To see, if somewhere, all at once,

A cherry-tree were out.

With Herrick of the daffodils,

With them of old renown,

She wanders in a happier place

Than Devon, or this town.