Ill befall the yellow flowers, Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldings do, Prophet of delight and mirth, Herald of a mighty band, Serving at my heart's command, William Wordsworth (1770-1850] FOUR-LEAF CLOVER I KNOW a place where the sun is like gold, One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And God put another in for luck,— If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Ella Higginson [1862 SWEET CLOVER WITHIN What weeks the melilot Gave forth its fragrance, I, a lad, Or never knew or quite forgot, Save that 'twas while the year is glad. "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" 1425 Now know I that in bright July It blossoms; and the perfume fine Am steeped in memory as with wine. Now know I that the whole year long, Even as my youth sings through my years. "I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD" I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they In such a jocund company: I gazed and gazed-but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth (1770-1850] TO DAFFODILS FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we We have short time to stay as you, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. Robert Herrick [1591-1674] TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL 1786 WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure To spare thee now is past my power, Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east! 1427 To a Mountain Daisy Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce reared above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield O' clod, or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred! Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom. Robert Burns [1759–1796] A FIELD FLOWER THERE is a flower, a little flower The prouder beauties of the field But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the Sun. It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms, The purple heath and golden broom But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Peeps round the fox's den. |