






THE POETRY OF PLOWERS. 
TO THE DAISY. 
BY WORDSWORTH. 
In youth from rock to rock I went 
From hill to hill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
Most pleased when most uneasy 3 
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 gray hairs 
Spring parts the clouds with softest aire 5 
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 zepbyrs choose 
Proud be the rose, with raing and dews 
Her head impearling ; 


