Love like daisies in fields of cold clay springs up again in the light of day. Ignorance and sorrow can not plough it under for longer than a memory.

“There!” said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride

— by William Wordsworth

“There!” said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, "Is Mosgiel Farm; and that’s the very field Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide A plain below stretched 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 bield of clod or stone" Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark’s nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.