DAISY. 
15 
THE DAISY. 
MASON GOOD. 
Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove that God is here; 
The daisy, fresh from winter’s sleep, 
Tells of Elis hand in lines as clear. 
For who but He who arched the skies, 
And poured the day-spring’s living flood, 
Wondrous alike in all He tries, 
Could rear the daisy’s purple bud; 
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, 
Its fringed border nicely spin, 
And cut the gold-embossed gem 
That, set in silver, gleams within; 
And fling it, unrestrained and free, 
O’er hill, and dale, and desert sod, 
That man, where’er he walks, may see, 
At every step the stamp of God ! 
THE DAISY. 
CLARE. 
Trampled under foot, 
The daisy lives, and strikes its little root 
Into the lap of Time; centuries may come 
And pass away into the silent tomb, 
And still the child, hid in the womb of Time, 
Shall smile and pluck them; when this simple rhyme 
