WANDER'D lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company !
and gazed but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
ITH litttle here to do or see Of things that in the great world be,
Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising; And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame As is the humour of the game, While I am gazing.
A nun demure, of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations.
A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next – and instantly
The shape will vanish, and behold ! A silver shield with boss of gold That spreads itself, some fairy bold In fight to cover.
I see thee glittering from afar - And then thou art a pretty star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee !
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; - May peace come never to his nest Who shall reprove thee !
Sweet Flower! for by that name at last When all my reveries are past I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature !
That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!
EASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
ODE TO WINTER
Germany, December, 1800. HEN first the fiery-mantled Sun His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue His children four the Seasons flew:-
First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; Rosy Summer, next advancing Rush'd into her sire's embrace - Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep Or India's citron-cover'd isles. More remote, and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar To hills that prop the polar star; And loves on deer-borne car to ride With barren darkness at his side Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe And trampling on her faded form;
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