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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
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;
Some memory 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.