378. To the Daisy

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 commonplace

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 similes,

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,

The shape will vanish, and behold!

A silver shield with boss of gold

That spreads itself, some fairy bold

In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar—

And then thou art a pretty star,

Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,

Self-poised in air thou seem’st to rest;—

May peace come never to his nest

Who shall reprove thee!

Sweet Flower! for by that name at last

When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,

Sweet silent Creature!

That breath’st with me in sun and air,

Do thou, as thou art wont, repair

My heart with gladness, and a share

Of thy meek nature!

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