INNOCENCE. 165 
pretty largely from him on the same flower 
before : 
With little here to do or see 
Of things that in the great world be, 
Sweet daisy ! oft I talk to thee, 
For thou art worthy. 
Thou unassuming common-place 
Of nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace, 
Which love makes for thee! 
Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
I sit, and play with similies, 
Loose types of things through all degrees, 
Thoughts of thy raising ; 
And many a fond and idle name, 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humour of the game, 
While I am gazing. 

A nun demure, of lowly port, 
Or sprightly maiden, of love’s court, 
In thy simplicity the sport 
Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
Thy appellations. 
A little Cyclops, with one eye, 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next—and instantly 
The freak is over, 






