Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/66

6 Primroses, the Spring may love them—

Summer knows but little of them:

Violets, a barren kind,

Withered on the ground must lie;

Daisies leave no fruit behind

When the pretty flowerets die;

Pluck them, and another year

As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power

To the favoured Strawberry-flower.

When the months of spring are fled

Hither let us bend our walk;

Lurking berries, ripe and red,

Then will hang on every stalk,

Each within its leafy bower;

And for that promise spare the flower!