See where it stands, the world-appointed flower,
Pure gold at centre, like the sun at noon,—
A mimic sun to light a true-love bower
For fair Queen Mab, now dead or in a swoon,
Whom late a poet saw beneath the moon.
It lifts its dainty face till sunset hour,
As if endowed with nympholeptic power,—
Then shuts its petals like a folding tune!
I love it more than words of mine can say,
And more than anchorite may breathe in prayer.
Methinks the lark has made it still his care
To brag of daisies to the lord of day.
Well! I will follow suit, as best I may,
Launching my love-songs on the summer air.