Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.

At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

Rest and be thankful.

To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.

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.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.