(The legend where I grew up held that daisies were magical flowers, the only thing in all existence that would not draw life out of something else's death.  The saying ran, "Daisies won't grow in a graveyard".  The day someone showed me a daisy picked wild in the Wehnimer's Landing graveyard behind the temple of Lorminstra was one of the harshest reminders I had that I was no longer at home.  --Tanager.)

Spring is in the day once more, the ocean’s blue with rain,
    Spring is in the air once more, so craft a daisy chain.
Over, under, so we weave the patterns of our lives–
    Some will die, but some will live, and so the daisy thrives.

He loves me, or
    He loves me not.
He loves me, or
    He loves me not.

When you pick the daisies, pick them where they blossom wild,
    Or every stem that breaks will kill a mother’s unborn child.
Speak a word in ocean’s praise when you begin the chain–
    Every word is one more day your pa sails home again.

He loves me, or
    He loves me not.
He loves me, or
    He loves me not.

Split each stem with careful touch to slide each next stem through,
    Every stem you split full-length will bring you cause to rue.
Every daisy threaded well will bring a cause for joy–
    A festival, a special treat, a smile or a toy.

He loves me, or
    He loves me not.
He loves me, or
    He loves me not.

Dark-elf, human, eyes stay locked when crafting daisy-chain.
    Every time you look away will bring a day of pain.
Light and dark must mingle here to keep the village strong–
    Weave the blossoms quickly, weave a friendship twice as long.

He loves me, or
    He loves me not.
He loves me, or
    He loves me not.

Every singing ribbon-finch will bring an hour of cheer,
    But hearing shadow-crow’s cold call will hearken nightmare near.
So weave your chains beside the ocean, far from forests wild–
    Within the forests, sylvans wait to kill a straying child.

He loves me, or
    He loves me not.
He loves me, or
    He loves me not.

One for forest, one for sea, and one for village wall,
    One for blazing Sun that watches on high over all.
Two for two who weave, plus three for love and hope and grief–
    That makes nine chains all in all to weave a fortune-wreath.

He loves me, or
    He loves me not.
He loves me, or
    He loves me not.

Daughters of our village, mind your task, and weave on well.
    Every fortune-wreath hung high will ward the lost-ship bell,
But every broken chain must drown within the cobalt sea–
    Or broken, too, your heart and home will someday surely be.

He loves me, or
    He loves me not.
He loves me, or
    He loves me not.