Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.