But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

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.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear; And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.