Imogen George

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.