Dreams, books, are each a world.
We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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.
The wealthiest man among us is the best
Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.