June. 
55 
“ O, fondest object of my care, 
Still fairest found where all are fair, 
For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me, 
Ask what thou wilt—'tis granted thee.” 
“ Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow, 
“ On me another grace bestow ! ” 
The spirit paused in silent thought,— 
What grace was there that flower had not ? 
’T was but a moment ; o’er the rose 
A veil of moss the angel throws ; 
And, robed in Nature's simplest weed, 
Could there a flower that rose exceed ? 
TO A DAISY. 
Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! 
A pilgrim bold, in Nature’s care, 
And oft, the long year through, the heir 
Of joy or sorrow ; 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 
The forest thorough ! 
And wherefore ? Man is soon depressed ; 
A thoughtless thing who, once unblest, 
Does little on his memory rest, 
Or on his reason ; 
