William Wordsworth

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift,
That no philosophy can lift.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift,
That no philosophy can lift.

There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon.

There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon.

A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays,
And confident to-morrows.

A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays,
And confident to-morrows.

The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless
Are scattered read more

The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless
Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.