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Floral Poetry. 
97 
TO THE DAISY. 
W ITH little here to do or see 
Of things that in the great world be, 
Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 
For thou art worthy; 
Thou unassuming commonplace 
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 similes, 
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, 
As is the humour of the game, 
While I am gazing. 
A nun demure, of lowly port; 
Or sprightly maiden, of Love’s court, 
In thy simplicity the sport 
Of all temptations; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
Thy appellations. 
A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy,- 
That thought comes next — and instantly 
The freak is over; 
N 
