To The Same Flower ( Second Poem )

William Wordsworth

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

A little cyclops, with one eye 
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, 
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 
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! 

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

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