Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes those gleams
Of past existence,-wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
THE DAFFODILS
I 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 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:- A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company!
I gazed 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.
WITH little 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 freak is over,
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!
O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near.
Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days I listen'd to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still long'd for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for Thee!
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of Spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequester'd nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And flowers and birds once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, Linnet! in thy green array Presiding Spirit here to-day Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers Art sole in thy employment;
A Life, a Presence like the air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair, Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perch'd in ecstasies Yet seeming still to hover;
There, where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives— A brother of the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes, As if by that exulting strain He mock'd and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes.
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