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 Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, The waves beside them danced, but they 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, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. DAFFODILS. FAIR daffodils, we weep to see Until the hastening day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we We have short time to stay as you, THE VOICE OF THE GRASS. HERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere; By the dusty roadside, On the sunny hillside, In every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; Here where the children play, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. My pleasant face you'll meet, Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; Nor hear my low sweet humming; And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; And the merry bird not sad, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of praise Most joyfully I raise To Him at whose command Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. SARAH ROBERTS. THE IVY GREEN. O, A DAINTY plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THE USE OF FLOWERS. GOD might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have had no flowers. |