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156 alive to their beauty; and human love and human sorrow "I am going," said Mr. Morland, "to make a bold assertion—that, with all his feeling for natural beauties, Wordsworth has none for flowers: he strings quaint conceits together about them. What does he call the daisy?" "A little Cyclops with one eye," answered Emily. "And the shield of a fairy, &c. Look at Burn's poem to the daisy! There are no pretty odd epithets in that; but a natural gush of feeling, hallowing for ever the object which called it forth." Edward Lorraine.—"Who cares for the exotics, whose attractions are of the hothouse and the gardener? Their ruby leaves are writ with no gentle thoughts; they are essentially of the drawing-room, and have no more sentiment about them than the Sèvre cups and saucers to which they are companions. Now there's the rose—'spring's sweetest book'—why a whole world of blushes are on its leaves. Then, again, the lily; whether it be