Here you will find the Long Poem To The Daisy of poet William Wordsworth
IN youth from rock to rock I went From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,--- Thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of Thee, sweet Daisy! Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few gray hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee; Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted, Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dew Her head impearling, Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling. If to a rock from rain he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He need but look about, and there Thou art!---a friend at hand, to care His melancholy. A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Of stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,---when day's begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time;---thou not in vain Art Nature's favourite.