“I never saw a moor,”

Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.I 've heard it in the chillest land,And on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.

Because I could not stop for Death,He kindly stopped for me;The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality.

O, Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

I wandered lonely as a CloudThat floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,When all at once I saw a crowdA host of dancing Daffodills;Along the Lake, beneath the trees,Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.The waves beside them danced, but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a laughing company:I gaz'd—and gaz'd—but little thoughtWhat wealth the shew to me had brought:For oft when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude,And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the Daffodils.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits andAre melted into air, into thin air:And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuffAs dreams are made on, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep.