the language of flowers. 
Meek, yielding to the occasion’s call, 
And all things suffering from all, 
Thy function apostolical 
In peace fulfilling. 
TO THE DAISY. 
WORDSWORTH. 
In youth from rock to rock I went, 
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 Nature’s love of thee partake. 
Her much-loved 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 1 
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 ; 
