Floral Poetry. 
Within the garden’s cultured round 
It shares the sweet Carnation’s bed; 
And blooms in consecrated ground 
In honour of the dead. 
The lambkin crops its crimson gem; 
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast; 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 
Light o’er the skylark’s nest. 
’Tis Flora’s page;—in every place, 
In every season fresh and fair, 
It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms everywhere. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 
The Rose has but a summer reign, 
The Daisy never dies. 
Montgomery. 
THE DAISY. 
T HESE flow’res white and red, 
Such that men callen Daisies in our town ; 
To them have I so great affection, 
As I said erst, when comen is the May, 
That in my bed there daweth me no day, 
That I n’am up and walking in the mead 
To see this flow’r against the sunne' spread, 
When it upriseth early by the morrow ; 
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow; 
So glad am I when that I have prese'nce 
Of it, to doen it all reverence. 
Chaucer. 
