We cannot take leave of our favourite wild-flower without repeating Wordsworth's beautiful stanzas. He takes as his motto a fine passage from Wither, quaint old George Wither:-- "Her [the Muse's] divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest object's 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;... She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man." On this hint our great meditative poet speaks, and speaks most tenderly and truly:-- "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!... "By 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, Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie, Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He need 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 couch'd 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.... "Oft do I sit by thee at ease, And weave a web of similes, 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 dress'd; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seem 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 fairy bold In fight to cover.