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128

TO THE DAISY.

TO THE DAISY.

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 commonplace
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 seems to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.

TO THE DAISY.

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 fairy 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!

W. Wordsworth.

Modern Poets.

9

129

130

A DEAD ROSE.

A DEAD ROSE.

O ROSE! who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;

But barren, and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat,
Kept seven years in a drawer—thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane, to last all day-

If breathing now-unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to burn—
If shining now-with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grew incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was-

If dropping now-would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet
Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,-

If lighting now-would coldly overrun thee.

A DEAD ROSE.

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive-
If passing now-would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognise thee,

131

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete-
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!—

Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee!

E. B. Browning.

132

THE DAFFODILS.

THE DAFFODILS.

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed-and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought;

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

W. Wordsworth.

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