human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  This little Daisy we all love,
Because it seems to say,
"I'm come to tell good girls and boys,
That Winter's gone away."
There is another flower, too,
I dearly love to see;
The little Snowdrop, peeping through
The frozen ground at me.
This is a pretty Primrose,
In shady lanes it grows;
And early in the pleasant spring,
In gardens too it blows.
Here is a formal Daffodil,
Though common, yet a favourite still;
It seems such joyous news to bring,
As harbinger of pleasant Spring.
Oh, beauteous, little May-blossom,
I am rejoiced that you are come,
To smile upon us once again,
After the winter's snow and rain.
How I do love the Violet!
Of all the flow'rs it is my pet;
How snug it hides its little head
In the green leaves of its low bed.
To me you tell a useful tale:
You say, "Be pretty as you will,
Yet modesty is lovelier still."
"Forget me not:" no, lovely flow'r,
I'll think on thee for many an hour:
If I could paint, I'd copy thee;
Then thou wouldst long remember'd be.
The Tulip, with its varied hues
Of crimson, brown, and rich dark blues,
(Tho' scentless,) splendid you appear,
When thickly set in rich parterre.
I cannot wonder that the Rose
Is such a favourite flower;
How beautiful and sweet it is,
With jess'mine in the bower.
I don't admire the Sunflower,
It rears its head so high;
And looks so proud, and seems to say,
"I'm climbing to the sky."
But oh! the fields they are so sweet,
The gardens are so gay,
That I should like to run about,
And nosegays make all day.
And now we'll see the Green-house Plants:
They cannot bear cold air;
Yet with them many wild field-flowr's
In beauty may compare.
Seem mostly to abound;
And these, in the warm summer months,
Are planted in the ground.
Here are the rich Camellias;
Oh, 'tis a splendid sight!
Some variegated with soft tints,
Some crimson, and some white.
How gracefully the Passion-flow'r,
Along the trellis twining,
Shows symmetry, with colours fair,
So pleasingly combining.
The Oranges, and Lemons too,
All in their proper station,
Tho' robb'd of half their native charms,
Invite our admiration.
But tell me now, who made these flow'rs,
Who moulded them so fair;
Who taught them, with such rich perfume,
To scent the morning air.
Who fill'd their cups with drops of dew,
When parch'd with summer's rays;
Who tinged their leaves with brightest hue,
On which we wondering gaze.
Can _man_ such splendid dyes produce?
Can he such colours blend?
Can he the tendril graceful twine,
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  Or the soft branches bend?
Oh no! 'tis God, who reigns on high,
Who form'd the earth and heaven;
Who framed each star that lights the sky.
He hath to mortals given
All these, and more! And should not we,
Frail children of mortality,
With thankful hearts, each day, each night,
Think of his goodness infinite?
And pray, that gratitude may still
Our stubborn hearts with rapture fill?
O teach us humbly to adore
Thee first, Thee last, Thee evermore!
Gracechurch-street, London.