DAISY. 
And as she prunes his plumes, of russet hue, 
Swears, on thy maiden blossom, to be true. 
Oft have I watch’d thy closing buds at eve, 
Which for the parting sun-beams seem’d to grieve, 
And, when gay morning gilt the dew-bright plain, 
Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again: 
Nor he who sung—‘the Daisy is so sweet’ — 
More dearly loved thy pearly form to greet; 
When on his scarf the knight the 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. —wobdswokth. 
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 
I sit, and play with similies, 
Loose types of Things through all degrees. 
Thoughts of thy raising: 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
