To the Daisy
William Wordsworth, 1807

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 seem 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!