DAISY. 
99 
And as she prunes his plumes, of russet hue. 
Swears, on thy maiden blossom, to be true. 
Oft have I watched thy closing buds at eve, 
W hich for the parting sun-beams seemed to 
grieve, 
And, when gay morning gilt the dew-bright 
plain, 
Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again : 
Nor he who sung— 1 the Daisy is so sweet ’—• 
More dearly loved thy pearly form to greet; 
When on his scarf the knightthe Daisy bound. 
And dames at tourneys shone, with daisies 
crown’d, 
And fays forsook the purer fields above, 
To hail the daisy, flower of faithful love. 
The same. —wordsworth. 
With little here to do or see 
Of things that in the great world be, 
Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee, 
For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace. 
Which Love makes for thee ! 
Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
1 sit, and play with similies, 
