To the Same Flower

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 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,

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!