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 do I sit by thee at ease, And weave a web of 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 seem 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 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!
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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