DAISY. 17 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 
The forest thorough ! 
Is it that man is soon deprest ? 
A thoughtless thing ? who, once unblest, 
Does little on his memory rest, 
Or on his reason, 
And thou wouldst teach him how to find 
A shelter under every wind, 
A hope for times that are unkind, 
And every season ? 
Thou wander’st the wide world about, 
Uncheck’d by pride or scrupulous doubt, 
With friends to greet thee, or without, 
Yet pleased and willing ; 
Meek, yielding to the occasion’s call, 
And all things suffering from all, 
Thy function apostolical 
In peace fulfilling. 
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH A PLOW. 
BURNS. 
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou’s met me in an evil hour, 
For I maun crush amang the stoure * 
Thy slender.stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my power, 
Thou bonnie gem. 
* Stoure, dust. 


