A memory of a perfect day—deep blue sky, white daisies—makes the speaker believe that grey rain and darkness can never return. The repetition of “I knew, I knew” sounds almost like trying to hold onto that certainty. But the second half admits that night does come, and grey skies do weep. What remains is a small, fragile keepsake: a daisy pressed in a book, dead and dry, kept to look at by candlelight. The mood is quiet and bittersweet. The speaker isn’t raging against loss; she is preserving something delicate from a brighter time. The dead flower becomes a way to revisit that blue-and-white day in memory, even while sitting in the dark. There is tenderness in the image, but also gentle sadness, because the daisy can be saved only by being dried and lifeless. The poem captures the way we keep small objects to hold onto feelings that otherwise fade.
For the Candle Light — Summary
The sky was blue, so blue that day And each daisy white, so white, O, I knew that no more could rains fall grey And night again be night.
I knew, I knew. Well, if night is night, And the grey skies greyly cry, I have in a book for the candle light, A daisy dead and dry.