IN youth from rock to rock I went

    From hill to hill in discontent

    Of pleasure high and turbulent，

    Most pleased when most uneasy；

    But now my own delights I make，——

    Thirst at every rill can slake，

    And gladly Nature's love partake，

    Of Thee， sweet Daisy！

    Thee Winter in the garland wears

    That thinly decks his few gray hairs；

    Spring parts the clouds with softest airs，

    That she may sun 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；

    Pleased at his greeting thee again；

    Yet nothing daunted，

    Nor grieved if thou be set at nought：

    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 choose；

    Proud be the rose， with rains and dew

    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 rain he fly，

    Or， some bright day of April sky，

    Imprisoned 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 care

    His melancholy.

    A hundred times， by rock or bower，

    Ere thus I have lain couched 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；

    Of 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.

    Fresh-smitten by the morning ray，

    When thou art up， alert and gay，

    Then， cheerful Flower！ my spirits play

    With kindred gladness：

    And when， at dusk， by dews opprest

    Thou sink'st， the image of thy rest

    Hath often eased my pensive breast

    Of careful sadness.

    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.

    Child of the Year！ that round dost run

    Thy pleasant course，——when day's begun

    As ready to salute the sun

    As lark or leveret，

    Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain；

    Nor be less dear to future men

    Than in old time；——thou not in vain

    Art Nature's favourite.