With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Daisy! again 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 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 seemsto 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 faery 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!
Bright 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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