50 
THE WHITE DAISY. 
The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 
Tko wild bee murmurs on its breast; 
The blue fly bends its pensile stem 
Light o’er the skylark’s nest. 
’Tis Flora’s page. In every place. 
In every season, fresh and fair, 
It opens with perennial grace. 
And blossoms everywhere. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds, unheeded, rise ; 
The rose has but a summer’s reign,— 
The Daisy never dies. 
J'. Montgomery. 
