DAISY 
“Young, lovely, loving, and beloved.” 
Here she was wont to go—and here—and here! 
Just where these daisies, pinks and violets grow: 
The world may find the spring by following her, 
For other print her airy steps ne’er left: 
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, 
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk; 
But like the soft west wind she stole along, 
And where she went the flowers took thickest root, 
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot. 
Ben Jonson. 
THE DAISY. 
Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep 
Need we to prove a God is here; 
The Daisy, fresh from winter’s sleep, 
Tells of His hand in lines as clear. 
For who but He who arched the skies, 
And pours 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 finely spin, 
And cut the gold-embossed gem 
That sets 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 
In every step the stamp of God? 
John Mason Good. 
