Thinker and poet clutch in vain
The secret of a laughing rill,
And Shakespeare’s self could never gain
The message blown so mockingly by trumpet of a daffodil.
Dear lad, for you I will not call,
Nor let a foolish dread be born.
A thousand years is still too small
To learn the secrets you must learn, ere you arise on Doomsday morn.
For you have set your ear to earth
To list the growing of the flowers: