THE DAISY. 
29 
Oft, in the sunless April day. 
Thy early smile has stayed my walk, 
But ’midst the gorgeous blooms of may, 
I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
So they who climb to wealth, forget 
The friends in darker fortunes tried; 
I copied them—but I regret 
That I should ape the ways of pride. 
And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower 
That made the woods of April bright. 
—Bryant. 
THE DAISY. 
Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove a God is here; 
The daisy, fresh from Nature’s sleep. 
Tells of His hand in lines as clear. 
For who but He who arched the skies. 
And pours the day-spring’s Uving-flood, 
Wondrous alike in all He tries, 
Could raise the daisy’s purple bud ! 
