AND FLOWERS OF POETRY. 129 
The following address to the daisy is from Wordsworth, and 
we think that it will excite in all minds agreeable reminiscences 
of days of childhood: — 
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 gladly Nature’s love partake 
Of thee, sweet daisy ! 
When Winter decks his few gray hairs, 
Thee in the scanty wreath he wears; 
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 ! 
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
Thou greetest the traveller in the lane; 
If welcomed once thou comest again; 
Thou art not daunted; 
Nor carest if thou be set at nought; 
And oft alone, in nooks remote, 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
When such are wanted. 
The violets in their secret mews, 
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; 
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
Her head impearling; 
Thou livest with less ambitious name, 
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’s sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 
Near the green holly; 
