unclose Agayne the sonne, that roos as rede as rose ...  And doune on knes anoon ryght I me sette, And as I koude, this fresshe flour I grette, Knelying alwey, til it unclosed was, Upon the smale, softe, swote gras.

Again, in The ‘Cuckoo and the Nightingale’, after a wakeful night, the Poet rises at dawn, and wandering forth, reaches a “laund of white and green.”

  ’So feire oon had I nevere in bene,
  The grounde was grene, y poudred with dayse,
  The floures and the gras ilike al hie,
  Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.’

Ed.

* * * * *

TO THE SAME FLOWER [A]

Composed 1802.—­Published 1807

[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.-I.  F.]

One of the “Poems of the Fancy.”—­Ed.

  With little here to do or see
  Of things that in the great world be,
  Daisy! again I talk to thee, [1]
      For thou art worthy,
  Thou unassuming Common-place 5
  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, [2] 10
  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, 15
    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; 20
  A queen in crown of rubies drest;
  A starveling in a scanty vest;
  Are all, as seems [3] to suit thee best,
    Thy appellations.

  A little cyclops, with one eye 25
  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, 30
  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 35
    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! 40

  Bright Flower! [4] 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, 45
  Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
  My heart with gladness, and a share
  Of thy meek nature!