308 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
TO THE DAISY. 
In youth, from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill, in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And Nature’s love of thee partake, 
Her much-loved daisy ! 
Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
That she may sun thee; 
Whole summer-fields are thine by right; 
And Autumn, melancholy wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight, 
When rains are on thee. 



Be violets, in their secret mews, 
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose ; 
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
Her head impearling ; 
Thou livest with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy flames 
Thou art indeed, by many a claim, 
The poet’s darling. 


