Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
Need we, to prove a God is here;
The daisy fresh from winter’s sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.
For who but He that arched the skies
And pours the day-spring’s living flood,
Who works and dwells in mysteries,
Could rear the daisy’s purple bud?
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin,