The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
And I am happy when I sing.
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!