May books and nature be their early joy!

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.