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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
That I n’am up and walking in the mede 
To see this floure ayenst the Snnne sprede; 
Whan it up riseth early by the morrow, 
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow. 
Wordsworth thus pours forth his tribute:— 
blow my own delights I make,— 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And gladly Nature’s love partake 
Of the sweet Daisy ! 
And again:— 
Bright flower, whose home is everywhere! 
A pilgrim bold in Nature’s care, 
And all the long year through, the heir 
Of joy or sorrow, 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Giv’n to no other flower I see 
The forest thorough ! 
Montgomery also thus apostrophizes the Daisy:- 
This small flower, to Nature dear, 
While moon and stars their courses run, 
Wreaths the whole circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 
It smiles upon the lap of May, 
To sultry August spreads its charms, 
Lights pale October on his way, 
And twines December’s arms. 
