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.
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.