Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
And I am happy when I sing.
Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.