MOSSGIEL.
“There,” said a stripling, pointing with much pride
Toward a low roof, with green trees half conceal’d,
“Is Mossgiel farm; and that’s the very field
Where Burns plow’d up the daisy!” Far and wide
A plain below stretch’d seaward; while, descried,
Above sea-clouds, the peaks of Arran rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea, and air was vivified.
Beneath the random field of clod or stone,
Myriads of daisies here shone forth in flower,
Near the lark’s nest, and in their natural hour
Have pass’d away; less happy than the one
That by the unwilling plowshare died to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.
William Wordsworth, 1770–1850.