To Daisies, Not to Shut so Soon 1429

Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honor of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the skylark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page,-in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair;
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,

Its humble buds unheeded rise;

The Rose has but a summer reign;

The Daisy never dies!

James Montgomery [1771-1854]

TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON

SHUT not so soon; the dull-eyed night

Has not as yet begun

To make a seizure on the light,

Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are,

No shadows great appear;

Nor doth the early shepherd's star

Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close

Her life-begetting eye,

And let the whole world then dispose

Itself to live or die.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

DAISIES

OVER the shoulders and slopes of the dune
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea,
A host in the sunshine, an army in June,
The people God sends us to set our heart free.

The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell,
The orioles whistled them out of the wood;
And all of their saying was, "Earth, it is well!"
And all of their dancing was, "Life, thou art good!"
Bliss Carman [1861-

TO THE DAISY

WITH little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy! again I talk to thee,

For thou art worthy:

Thou unassuming common-place
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 similies,

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 humor 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 dressed

A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seem to suit thee best,

Thy appellations.

To Daisies

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!

Bright 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!

1431

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO DAISIES

Ан, drops of gold in whitening flame
Burning, we know your lovely name—
Daisies, that little children pull!
Like all weak things, over the strong
Ye do not know your power for wrong,
And much abuse your feebleness.
Daisies, that little children pull,
As ye are weak, be merciful!
O hide your eyes! they are to me
Beautiful insupportably.

Or be but conscious ye are fair,
And I your loveliness could bear,
But, being fair so without art,

Ye vex the silted memories of my heart!

As a pale ghost yearning strays

With sundered gaze,

'Mid corporal presences that are

To it impalpable-such a bar

Sets you more distant than the morning-star.

Such wonder is on you, and amaze,

I look and marvel if I be

Indeed the phantom, or are ye?

The light is on your innocence
Which fell from me.

The fields ye still inhabit whence
My world-acquainted treading strays,
The country where I did commence;
And though ye shine to me so near,
So close to gross and visible sense,—
Between us lies impassable year on year.

To other time and far-off place
Belongs your beauty: silent thus,
Though to other naught you tell,
To me your ranks are rumorous
Of an ancient miracle.

Vain does my touch your petals graze,

I touch you not; and though ye blossom here,

Your roots are fast in alienated days.

Ye there are anchored, while Time's stream Has swept me past them: your white ways And infantile delights do seem

To look in on me like a face,

Dead and sweet, come back through dream, With tears, because for old embrace

It has no arms.

These hands did toy,

Children, with you, when I was child,

To the Dandelion

And in each other's eyes we smiled:
Not yours, not yours the grievous-fair
Apparelling

With which you wet mine eyes; you wear,
Ah me, the garment of the grace

I wove you when I was a boy;

O mine, and not the year's your stolen Spring!

And since ye wear it,

Hide your sweet selves! I cannot bear it.

For when ye break the cloven earth

With your young laughter and endearment,
No blossomy carillon 'tis of mirth

To me; I see my slaughtered joy

Bursting its cerement.

1433

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]

TO THE DANDELION

DEAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,

First pledge of blithesome May,

Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
An Eldorado in the grass have found,

Which not the rich earth's ample round

May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
Nor wrinkled the lean brow

Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;

'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand

To take it at God's value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.