When a daffadill I see, Hanging down his head t'wards me, Guesse I may, what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead: Lastly, safely buryed.

Fair daffadils, we weep to see You haste away so soone; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained its noone. . . . . We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you or anything.

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

Then the face of night is fair in the dewy downs And the shining daffodil dies.

There is a tiny yellow daffodil, The butterfly can see it from afar, Although one summer evening's dew could fill Its little cup twice over, ere the star Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold, And be no prodigal.

O Love-star of the unbeloved March, When cold and shrill, Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill, And keeps unfilmed the lately torpid rill!