But lately, one rough day, this Flower I pass'd, And recognized it, though an alter'd Form, And buffetted at will by Rain and Storm. I stopp'd, and said with inly muttered voice, "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: This neither is it's courage nor it's choice, But it's necessity in being old. The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in it's decay; Stiff in it's members, wither'd, changed of hue." And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey. To be a Prodigal's Favorite-then, worse truth, A Miser's Pensioner-behold our lot! O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not! 7. 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 dancing Daffodills; Along the Lake, beneath the trees, Ten thousand dancing in the breeze. The waves beside them danced, but they In such a laughing company: I gaz'd—and gaz'd—but little thought What wealth the shew to me had brought: VOL. II. For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils. 8. Who fancied what a pretty sight Was it the humour of a Child? Or rather of some love-sick Maid, Whose brows, the day that she was styled The Shepherd Queen were thus arrayed? Of Man mature, or Matron sage? Or old Man toying with his age? |