and Chaucer has sung so melodiously and so affectionately of the charms of
These flowres, white and rede,
Soch that men callen daisies in our town,
as to entwine it with the recollections of himself. Shelley, among the modern writers, in a single couplet, has left one of the most exquisite descriptions of this flower that ever was written:
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets!
And another poet endears it by a single epithet. He is seeking for a flower to place in the coffined hand of a dead infant.
Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,
That tiny hand to fill,
Go search the fields! the lichen wet,