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To the Small Celandine

I'm as great as them, I trow, Since the day I found thee out. Little Flower!—I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;

Since we needs must first have met,
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush

Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal;

Telling tales about the sun,

When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!

Travel with the multitude:

Never heed them; I aver

That they all are wanton wooers;
But the thrifty cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home;
Spring is coming, Thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit!

Careless of thy neighborhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane; there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,

But 'tis good enough for thee.

1423

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;

Others, too, of lofty mien;
They have done as worldings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,

Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill-requited upon earth;

Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,

Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing, as dost behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!

William Wordsworth (1770-1850]

FOUR-LEAF CLOVER

I KNOW a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blossoms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook,
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
And one is for love, you know,

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,
You must love and be strong—and so,

If you work, if you wait, you will find the place
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

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.

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"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" 1425

Now know I that in bright July
It blossoms; and the perfume fine
Brings back my boyhood, until I

Am steeped in memory as with wine.

Now know I that the whole year long,

Though Winter chills or Summer cheers,
It writes along the weeks its song,

Even as my youth sings through my years.
Wallace Rice [1859-

"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO DAFFODILS

FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;

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

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonny gem.

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!

To a Mountain Daisy

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce reared above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod, or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet floweret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betrayed,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskillful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

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,
He, ruined, sink!

1427

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