POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
117 
THE DAISY. 
Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove a God is here, 
The daisy, fresh from winter’s sleep. 
Tells of his hand in lines as clear. 
For who but he who arched the skies, 
And pours the day spring’s living flood. 
Wondrous alike in all he tries. 
Could rear the daisy’s purple bud ? 
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem. 
Its fringed border nicely spin. 
And cup the gold-embossed gem 
That’s set in silver gleams within ? 
And fling it unrestrained and free. 
O’er hill and dale and desert sod. 
That man, where’er he walks, may see. 
In every step, the stamp of God ? 
THE DAFFODIL. 
Fair Daffodils, to see 
You haste away so soon; 
