It is what we (in America) raise in green-houses and call the mountain daisy.
Know that blood has been as familiar to her as the dew to the mountain daisy.
So it comes to pass that Robert Burns mourns when his plow turns under a mountain daisy or destroys the home of a field mouse.
Who that has once read, can ever forget his harmonious and pathetic address to a mountain daisy on turning it up with the plough?
I wonder what he would have written if he had turned up a plantain weed with his plough instead of a mountain daisy.
Few men are his match for staying up all night and looking as fresh as a mountain daisy after the vigil.