In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.

I wandered 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.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.