To a Mountain Daisy

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou’st met me in life’s early hour;
When, careless of thy lowly bed,
I saw thee rearing up thy head.

Thy story is a quiet one,
Unseen by many, lost to none;
The dewdrops cling, the sun doth shine,
To raise thy face, sweet flower divine.

And when thou bloom’st in May’s soft air,
Thy grace might tempt the timid hare;
Or gently sway in evening’s breath,
To cherish life beyond all death.

• Hartley Coleridge