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In youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill, in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleas'd when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake

Of thee, sweet Daisy !


When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs;

Spring cannot shun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight

When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane; If welcome once thou count'st it gain;

Thou art not daunted, Nor car'st if thou be set at naught ; And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

When such are wanted.

Be Violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs chuse;
Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews

Her head impearling;
Thou liv’st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim

The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie

Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare;
He need but look about, and there
Thou art! a Friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couch'd an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension ;
Some steady love; some brief delight;

that had taken flight ; Some chime of fancy wrong or right;

Or stray invention.

If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn,

I drink out of an humbler urn

A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life, our nature breeds;
A wisdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure.

When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise alert and gay,
Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play

With kindred motion :
At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press
The ground, as if in thankfulness
Without some feeling, more or less,

Of true devotion.

And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through another debt,
Which I wherever thou art met,

To thee am owing;
An instinct call it, a blind sense ;
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how nor whence,

Nor whither going.

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