Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works


          PLEASURES newly found are sweet
          When they lie about our feet:
          February last, my heart
          First at sight of thee was glad;
          All unheard of as thou art,
          Thou must needs, I think, have had,
          Celandine! and long ago,
          Praise of which I nothing know.

          I have not a doubt but he,
          Whosoe'er the man might be,                                 10
          Who the first with pointed rays
          (Workman worthy to be sainted)
          Set the sign-board in a blaze,
          When the rising sun he painted,
          Took the fancy from a glance
          At thy glittering countenance.

          Soon as gentle breezes bring
          News of winter's vanishing,
          And the children build their bowers,
          Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould                           20
          All about with full-blown flowers,
          Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold!
          With the proudest thou art there,
          Mantling in the tiny square.

          Often have I sighed to measure
          By myself a lonely pleasure,
          Sighed to think, I read a book
          Only read, perhaps, by me;
          Yet I long could overlook
          Thy bright coronet and Thee,                                30
          And thy arch and wily ways,
          And thy store of other praise.

          Blithe of heart, from week to week
          Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
          While the patient primrose sits
          Like a beggar in the cold,
          Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
          Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold;
          Liveliest of the vernal train
          When ye all are out again.                                  40

          Drawn by what peculiar spell,
          By what charm of sight or smell,
          Does the dim-eyed curious Bee,
          Labouring for her waxen cells,
          Fondly settle upon Thee
          Prized above all buds and bells
          Opening daily at thy side,
          By the season multiplied?

          Thou art not beyond the moon,
          But a thing "beneath our shoon:"                            50
          Let the bold Discoverer thrid
          In his bark the polar sea;
          Rear who will a pyramid;
          Praise it is enough for me,
          If there be but three or four
          Who will love my little Flower.



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