Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works


          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,                              10
          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;                                     20
          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,                          30
          That spreads itself, some faery 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!                                 40

          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!



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