I wandered lonely as a Cloud, by William Wordsworth

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.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:—
A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

Mutability, by William Wordsworth

From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime, Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

On Seeing a Tuft of Snowdrops in a Storm, by William Wordsworth

When haughty expectations prostrate lie, And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring Mature release, in fair society Survive, and Fortune’s utmost anger try; Like these frail snow-drops that together cling, And nod their helmets smitten by the wing Of many a furious whirlblast sweeping by. Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; And so the bright immortal Theban band, Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove’s command, Might overwhelm, but could not separate!

The Solitary Reaper, by William Wordsworth

Behold her, single in the field,  Yon solitary Highland Lass!  Reaping and singing by herself;  Stop here, or gently pass!  Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain;  O listen! for the Vale profound  Is overflowing with the sound.   No Nightingale did ever chaunt  More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt,  Among Arabian sands:  A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard  In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,  Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.    Will no one tell me what she sings?—  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow  For old, unhappy, far-off things,  And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay,  Familiar matter of to-day?  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,  That has been, and may be again?   Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending;  I saw her singing at her work,  And o’er the sickle bending;—  I listen’d, motionless and still;  And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore,  Long after it was heard no more.

My Heart Leaps Up, by William Wordsworth

My heart leaps up when I behold 
   A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 
   Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

The World Is Too Much With Us, by William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God!  I’d rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

The Daffodils, by William Wordsworth

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.

Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
   In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.