Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
Rest and be thankful.
He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.