There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

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.

And I am happy when I sing.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

Earth has not anything to show more fair.

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!