How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
I am athirst for God, the living God.
And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.
O fateful flower beside the rill- The Daffodil, the daffodil!
And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
we wish for more in life rather than more of it.