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TO THE DAISY.
In youth from rock to rock I went,
Most pleas'd when most uneasy;
Of thee, sweet Daisy!
When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs;
Spring cannot shun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane; If welcome once thou count'st it gain;
Thou art not daunted, Nor car'st if thou be set at naught t And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.
Be Violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs chose;
Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling; Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,
Near the green holly,
A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure;
Of hearts at leisure.
When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise alert and gay,
Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play
With kindred motion: At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee pres The ground, as if in thankfulness Without some feeling, more or less,
Of true devotion.
And all day long I number yet,
To thee am owing;
Nor whither going.