My heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill

Ah, the strange, sweet, lonely delightOf the Valleys of Dream.

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away

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 golden daffodils.

I am lonely, lonely.I was born to be lonely,I am best so!

My heart was a habitation large enough for many guests, but lonely and chill, and without a household fire. I longed to kindle one! It seemed not so wild a dream . . .