| |
|
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.
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!
|
|
|
