The Daisy.
"Now have I than eke this condition,That of all the floures in the mede,Than love I most these floures white and rede,Soch that men callen daisies in our toun."—Chaucer: 'The Legend of Good Women,'Prologue, ver. 40–44.
Fair is the morn, and the clear warm lightStrikes full on a bush where rich roses grow; A few stray beams, more tenderly bright,Reach to the daisy that nestles below,Half-hidden from sight.
Yet the daisy looks with smile as sweetUp at the broad sky, arching high o'er all, As the proudest flower that glows to greetThe great Lord of Day, whom Aurora's callBade them wake to meet.
No shame feels she, though in lowly place,No envy of rivals gorgeously clad, Contentment gleams from her pure, fresh face,And her glance can gladden a heart that's sad,By its radiant grace.
The gentle rains come, and kindly dew,To seek where the daisy peacefully grows; And soft lights lend each delicate hue,While she heeds not rude winds that vex the roseStanding bold to view.
And each honest, loving heart doth knowHer as emblem of steadfast purity, Whom touch of Chaucer's hand did endowWith halo and stamp of a high degree,Though she blooms so low.
The world is made up of great and small,Some modest and plain, some grandly arrayed; On some will the golden sunshine fall,Some ever must humbly dwell in the shade,Though dearest of all.
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