The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.