Wordsworth. 
JN youth, from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill, in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
Most pleased when most uneasy; 
But now my own delights I make,— 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And Nature’s love of thee partake, 
Her much-loved 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, melancholy wight! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 
When rains are on thee. 
