Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white Lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,-- Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,-- Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind,--of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap,--and of a sky above Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the Robin's song Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem When thou, with all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. Wordsworth's 'Daisy' is very beautiful, and full of moral lessons: 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! When winter decks his few gray hairs, Thee in the scanty wreath he wears; 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; If welcome once, thou count'st it gain; Thou art not daunted, Nor car'st 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.