THE DAISY. 
431 
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, genial 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 salute the sun 
As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time;—thou not in vain 
Art Nature’s favorite. 
