To the Daisy by William Wordsworth. 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 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 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! 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!