Floral Poetry. 
TO THE DAISY. 
Y N youth from rock to rock I went, 
A 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 gladly Nature’s love partake, 
Of thee, sweet Daisy ! 
Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few grey 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. 
Be Violets in their secret mews 
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 
Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews 
Her head impearling; 
Thou liv’st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
Thou art indeed, by many a claim, 
The Poet’s darling. 
If to a rock from rains he fly, 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie 
Near the green holly, 
