William Wordsworth

But hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity.

But hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity.

A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live.

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live.

Among the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with read more

Among the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little wren's
In snugness may compare.

I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
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I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath often left me mourning.