But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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.
A deep distress has humanised my soul.
Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.