378. To the Daisy

William Wordsworth (1770—1850)

  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!