40 April. 
By human pride or cunning driv’n 
To mis'ry’s brink, 
Till, wrench’d of ev'ry stay but Heav’n, 
He, ruined, sink. 
Ev’n thou who mourn’st the daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine—no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's plougshare drives, elate, 
Full on thy bloom, 
Till, crush’d beneath the furrow's weight, 
Shall be thy doom ! 
Burns. 
THE EYE OF THE DAY. 
These flow’rds, white and red, 
Such that men callen daisies in our town ; 
To them have I so great affection, 
As I said erst, when comen is the May, 
That in my bed there daweth me no day 
That I n’am up and walking in the mead 
To see this flow’r against the sunnd spread, 
When it upriseth early by the morrow ; 
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow, 
So glad am I when that I have presence 
Of it, to doen it all revdrence. 
Chaucer. 
