To The Daisy (First Poem) - Poem by William Wordsworth

"Her divine skill taught me this, 
That from every thing I saw 
I could some instruction draw, 
And raise pleasure to the height 
Through the meanest objects sight. 

By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least bough's rustelling; 
By a Daisy whose leaves spread 
Shut when Titan goes to bed; 
Or a shady bush or tree; 
She could more infuse in me 
Than all Nature's beauties can 
In some other wiser man.' 
G. Wither. * His muse. 

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,-- 
My 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 grey 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 dews 
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 rains 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 needs but look about, and there 
Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare 
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; 
Or 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.