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the foetry of flowers. 
Fresh smitten by thy morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits pla* 
With kindred gladness: 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest, 
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 
To thee am owing; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense— 
A happy, genial influence, 
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
Nor whither going. 
Child of the year! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course,—when day’s begun. 
As ready to salute the sun 
As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain : 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ;—thou not in vain 
Art nature’s favourite. 
