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To The Daisy (first poem) Analysis



Author: Poetry of William Wordsworth Type: Poetry Views: 866

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"Her divine skill taught me this,

That from every thing I saw

I could some instruction draw,

And raise pleasure to the height

Through the meanest objects sight.

By the murmur of a spring,

Or the least bough's rustelling;

By a Daisy whose leaves spread

Shut when Titan goes to bed;

Or a shady bush or tree;

She could more infuse in me

Than all Nature's beauties can

In some other wiser man.'

G. Wither. * His muse.



IN youth from rock to rock I went,

From hill to hill in discontent

Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy;

But now my own delights I make,--

My thirst at every rill can slake,

And gladly Nature's love partake,

Of Thee, sweet Daisy!



Thee Winter in the garland wears

That thinly decks his few grey hairs;

Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,

That she may sun thee;

Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;

And Autumn, melancholy Wight!

Doth in thy crimson head delight

When rains are on thee.



In shoals and bands, a morrice train,

Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;

Pleased at his greeting thee again;

Yet nothing daunted,

Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:

And oft alone in nooks remote

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

When such are wanted.



Be violets in their secret mews

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews

Her head impearling,

Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,

Yet hast not gone without thy fame;

Thou art indeed by many a claim

The Poet's darling.



If to a rock from rains he fly,

Or, some bright day of April sky,

Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie

Near the green holly,

And wearily at length should fare;

He needs but look about, and there

Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy.



A hundred times, by rock or bower,

Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,

Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight;

Some memory that had taken flight;

Some chime of fancy wrong or right;

Or stray invention.



If stately passions in me burn,

And one chance look to Thee should turn,

I drink out of an humbler urn

A lowlier pleasure;

The homely sympathy that heeds

The common life, our nature breeds;

A wisdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure.



Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,

When thou art up, alert and gay,

Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play

With kindred gladness:

And when, at dusk, by dews opprest

Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest

Hath often eased my pensive breast

Of careful sadness.



And all day long I number yet,

All seasons through, another debt,

Which I, wherever thou art met,

To thee am owing;

An instinct call it, a blind sense;

A happy, genial influence,

Coming one knows not how, nor whence,

Nor whither going.



Child of the Year! that round dost run

Thy pleasant course,--when day's begun

As ready to salute the sun

As lark or leveret,

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;

Nor be less dear to future men

Than in old time;--thou not in vain

Art Nature's favourite.





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