The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air.

Even thou who mournst the daisy's fate, That fate is thine--no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom!

Thou unassuming Commonplace Of Nature.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

The poet's darling.

That of all the floures in the mede, Thanne love I most these floures white and rede, Suche as men callen daysyes in her toune.