Floral poetry and the language of flowers . 96 Floral Poetry. An instinct call it, a blind sense—A happy, genial one knows not how, nor whither going. Child of the year! that round dost runThy pleasant course,—when days begun,As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret,Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ;Nor be less dear to future menThan in old time ;—thou not in vain Art Natures favourite. Wordsworth. THE DAISY HOT worlds on worlds, in phalanx we to prove that God is here ;The Daisy, fresh from Winters of His hand in lines as clear. For
Floral poetry and the language of flowers . 96 Floral Poetry. An instinct call it, a blind sense—A happy, genial one knows not how, nor whither going. Child of the year! that round dost runThy pleasant course,—when days begun,As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret,Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ;Nor be less dear to future menThan in old time ;—thou not in vain Art Natures favourite. Wordsworth. THE DAISY HOT worlds on worlds, in phalanx we to prove that God is here ;The Daisy, fresh from Winters of His hand in lines as clear. For who but He who arched the skies,And poured the day-springs living flood, Wondrous alike in all He tries. Could rear the Daisys purple bud ; Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, Its fringed border nicely cut the gold-cmbossed gem That, set in silver, gleams within ; And fling it unrestrained and free. Oer hill and dale, and desert sod,That man, whereer he walks, may see, At every step, the stamp of God ? John Mason Good. ^ ^. ^ -^ -^ Floral Poetry. 97 TO THE DAISY. w ITH little here to do or seeOf things that in the great world be,Daisy ! again I talk to thee, For thou art worthy; ^ Thou unassuming commonplaceOf Nature, with that homely 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 nameI 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 Loves 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 eyeStaring to threaten and defy,-That thought comes next—and instantlyThe freak is over; -^\ ^ ^ 98 Floral Poetry. The shape will vanish—and beholdA silver shield with b
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