Daffodils

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

1827.

18

William Wordsworth..

DAFFODILS

I WANDER'D 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 stretch'd 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
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

12

I gazed and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought: 18

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.

1804. 1807.

24

William Wordsworth.

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

12

16

To Night

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,

Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

1794.

20

24

William Blake.

TO NIGHT

SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,-
Swift by thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,

Kiss her until she be wearied out,

Then wander oe'r city, and sea, and land,

Touching all with thine opiate wand→

Come, long sought!

14

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sigh'd for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried
Would'st thou me?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee

Shall I nestle near thy side?

Would'st thou me?-And I replied
No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-

Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

1821. 1824.

21

28

35

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

HYMN OF PAN

FROM the forests and highlands
We come, we come;

From the river-girt islands,

Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Hymn of Pan

The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,

Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,

And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing

The light of the dying day,

Speeded by my sweet pipings.

The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,

12

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves,

And all that did then attend and follow Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal Earth,

And of Heaven-and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth,-

24

And then I changed my pipings,— Singing how down the vale of Menalus I pursued a maiden and clasp'd a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed: All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood, At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 36 Percy Bysshe Shelley.

1820. 1824