The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
For nature then to me was all in all.
Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?