William Wordsworth

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

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

Sad fancies do we then affect,
In luxury of disrespect
To our own prodigal excess
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Sad fancies do we then affect,
In luxury of disrespect
To our own prodigal excess
Of too familiar happiness.

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
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Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The Ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon!
There's joy in the mountains:
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone.

Behold, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
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Behold, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.