To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.
—Scott.
THE DAFFODILS.
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;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.