To The Daisy

    From hill to hill in discontent

    Of pleasure high and turbulent，

    Most pleased when most uneasy；

    But now my own delights I make，——

    Thirst at every rill can slake¹，

    And gladly Nature's love partake，

    Of Thee， sweet Daisy！

    Thee Winter in the garland wears

    That thinly decks his few gray hairs；

    Spring parts the clouds with softest airs，

    That she may sun thee；

    Whole Summer-fields are thine by right；

    And Autumn， melancholy² Wight！

    Doth in thy crimson³ head delight

    When rains are on thee.

    In shoals and bands， a morrice train，

    Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane；

    Pleased at his greeting thee again；

    Yet nothing daunted⁴，

    Nor grieved if thou be set at nought⁵：

    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 Zephyrs⁶ choose；

    Proud be the rose， with rains and dew

    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 rain he fly，

    Or， some bright day of April sky，

    Imprisoned⁷ by hot sunshine lie

    Near the green holly⁸，

    And wearily at length should fare；

    He need but look about， and there

    Thou art！——a friend at hand， to care

    His melancholy.

    A hundred times， by rock or bower⁹，

    Ere thus I have lain couched an hour，

    Have I derived¹⁰ from thy sweet power

    Some apprehension¹¹

    Some steady love； some brief delight；

    Some memory that had taken flight；

    Some chime of fancy wrong or right；

    Of stray invention.

    If stately passions in me burn，

    And one chance look to Thee should turn，

    I drink out of an humbler urn¹²

    A lowlier pleasure；

    The homely¹³ sympathy that heeds¹⁴

    The common life， our nature breeds；

    A wisdom fitted to the needs

    Of hearts at leisure.

    Fresh-smitten by the morning ray，

    When thou art up， alert and gay，

    Then， cheerful Flower！ my spirits play

    With kindred gladness：

    And when， at dusk， by dews opprest

    Thou sink'st， the image of thy rest

    Hath often eased my pensive¹⁵ breast

    Of careful sadness.

    And all day long I number yet，

    All seasons through， another debt，

    Which I， wherever thou art met，

    To thee am owing；

    An instinct call it， a blind sense；

    A happy， genial¹⁶ influence，

    Coming one knows not how， nor whence，

    Nor whither going.

    Child of the Year！ that round dost run

    Thy pleasant course，——when day's begun

    As ready to salute¹⁷ the sun

    As lark¹⁸ or leveret，

    Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain¹⁹；

    Nor be less dear to future men

    Than in old time；——thou not in vain

    Art Nature's favourite.