Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.

The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.