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.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

 Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
      For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
   Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
     Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
   Steady thy laden head across a brook;
   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
   Among the river sallows, borne aloft
      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Earth has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

The wife of a rich man fell sick, and as she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, dear child, be good and pious, and then the good God will always protect you, and I will look down on you from heaven and be near you.  Thereupon she closed her eyes and departed.  Every day the maiden went out to her mother’s grave, and wept, and she remained pious and good.  When winter came the snow spread a white sheet over the grave, and by the time the spring sun had drawn it off again, the man had taken another wife. The woman had brought with her into the house two daughters, who were beautiful and fair of face, but vile and black of heart. Now began a bad time for the poor step-child.  Is the stupid goose to sit in the parlor with us, they said.  He who wants to eat bread must earn it.  Out with the kitchen-wench.  They took her pretty clothes away from her, put an old grey bedgown on her, and gave her wooden shoes.  Just look at the proud princess, how decked out she is, they cried, and laughed, and led her into the kitchen. There she had to do hard work from morning till night, get up before daybreak, carry water, light fires, cook and wash.  Besides this, the sisters did her every imaginable injury – they mocked her and emptied her peas and lentils into the ashes, so that she was forced to sit and pick them out again.  In the evening when she had worked till she was weary she had no bed to go to, but had to sleep by the hearth in the cinders.  And as on that account she always looked dusty and dirty, they called her cinderella.

It happened that the father was once going to the fair, and he asked his two step-daughters what he should bring back for them. Beautiful dresses, said one, pearls and jewels, said the second. And you, cinderella, said he, what will you have.  Father break off for me the first branch which knocks against your hat on your way home.  So he bought beautiful dresses, pearls and jewels for his two step-daughters, and on his way home, as he was riding through a green thicket, a hazel twig brushed against him and knocked off his hat.  Then he broke off the branch and took it with him.  When he reached home he gave his step-daughters the things which they had wished for, and to cinderella he gave the branch from the hazel-bush.  Cinderella thanked him, went to her mother’s grave and planted the branch on it, and wept so much that the tears fell down on it and watered it.  And it grew and became a handsome tree. Thrice a day cinderella went and sat beneath it, and wept and prayed, and a little white bird always came on the tree, and if cinderella expressed a wish, the bird threw down to her what she had wished for.

It happened, however, that the king gave orders for a festival which was to last three days, and to which all the beautiful young girls in the country were invited, in order that his son might choose himself a bride.  When the two step-sisters heard that they too were to appear among the number, they were delighted, called Cinderella and said,

comb our hair for us, brush our shoes and fasten our buckles, for we are going to the wedding at the king’s palace. Cinderella obeyed, but wept, because she too would have liked to go with them to the dance, and begged her step-mother to allow her to do so.  You go, cinderella, said she, covered in dust and dirt as you are, and would go to the festival.  You have no clothes and shoes, and yet would dance.  As, however, cinderella went on asking, the step-mother said at last, I have emptied a dish of lentils into the ashes for you, if you have picked them out again in two hours, you shall go with us.  The maiden went through the back-door into the garden, and called, you tame pigeons, you turtle-doves, and all you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to pick

the good into the pot,

     the bad into the crop.

Then two white pigeons came in by the kitchen window, and afterwards the turtle-doves, and at last all the birds beneath the sky, came whirring and crowding in, and alighted amongst the ashes. And the pigeons nodded with their heads and began pick, pick, pick, pick, and the rest began also pick, pick, pick, pick, and gathered all the good grains into the dish.  Hardly had one hour passed before they had finished, and all flew out again.  Then the girl took the dish to her step-mother, and was glad, and believed that now she would be allowed to go with them to the festival. But the step-mother said, no, cinderella, you have no clothes and you can not dance.  You would only be laughed at.  And as cinderella wept at this, the step-mother said, if you can pick two dishes of lentils out of the ashes for me in one hour, you shall go with us.  And she thought to herself, that she most certainly cannot do again.  When the step-mother had emptied the two dishes of lentils amongst the ashes, the maiden went through the back-door into the garden and cried, you tame pigeons, you turtle-doves, and all you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to pick

the good into the pot,

     the bad into the crop.

Then two white pigeons came in by the kitchen-window, and afterwards the turtle-doves, and at length all the birds beneath the sky, came whirring and crowding in, and alighted amongst the ashes.  And the doves nodded with their heads and began pick, pick, pick, pick, and the others began also pick, pick, pick, pick, and gathered all the good seeds into the dishes, and before half an hour was over they had already finished, and all flew out again. Then the maiden was delighted, and believed that she might now go with them to the wedding.  But the step-mother said, all

this will not help.  You cannot go with us, for you have no clothes and can not dance.  We should be ashamed of you.  On this she turned her back on cinderella, and hurried away with her two proud daughters. As no one was now at home, cinderella went to her mother’s grave beneath the hazel-tree, and cried –

shiver and quiver, little tree,

     silver and gold throw down over me.

Then the bird threw a gold and silver dress down to her, and slippers embroidered with silk and silver.  She put on the dress with all speed, and went to the wedding.  Her step-sisters and the step-mother however did not know her, and thought she must be a foreign princess, for she looked so beautiful in the golden dress. They never once thought of cinderella, and believed that she was sitting at home in the dirt, picking lentils out of the ashes.  The prince approached her, took her by the hand and danced with her. He would dance with no other maiden, and never let loose of her hand, and if any one else came to invite her, he said, this is my partner.

She danced till it was evening, and then she wanted to go home. But the king’s son said, I will go with you and bear you company, for he wished to see to whom the beautiful maiden belonged. She escaped from him, however, and sprang into the pigeon-house.  The king’s son waited until her father came, and then he told him that the unknown maiden had leapt into the pigeon-house.  The old man thought, can it be cinderella.  And they had to bring him an axe and a pickaxe that he might hew the pigeon-house to pieces, but no one was inside it.  And when they got home cinderella lay in her dirty clothes among the ashes, and a dim little oil-lamp was burning on the mantle-piece, for cinderella had jumped quickly down from the back of the pigeon-house and had run to the little hazel-tree, and there she had taken off her beautiful clothes and laid them on the grave, and the bird had taken them away again, and then she had seated herself in the kitchen amongst the ashes in her grey gown. Next day when the festival began afresh, and her parents and the step-sisters had gone once more, cinderella went to the hazel-tree and said –

     shiver and quiver, my little tree,

     silver and gold throw down over me.

Then the bird threw down a much more beautiful dress than on the preceding day. And when cinderella appeared at the wedding in this dress, every one was astonished at her beauty.  The king’s son had waited until she came, and instantly took her by the hand and danced with no one but her.  When others came and invited her, he said, this is

my partner.  When evening came she wished to leave, and the king’s son followed her and wanted to see into which house she went.  But she sprang away from him, and into the garden behind the house.  Therein stood a beautiful tall tree on which hung the most magnificent pears.  She clambered so nimbly between the branches like a squirrel that the king’s son did not know where she was gone.  He waited until her father came, and said to him, the unknown maiden has escaped from me, and I believe she has climbed up the pear-tree.  The father thought, can it be cinderella.  And had an axe brought and cut the tree down, but no one was on it.  And when they got into the kitchen, cinderella lay there among the ashes, as usual, for she had jumped down on the other side of the tree, had taken the beautiful dress to the bird on the little hazel-tree, and put on her grey gown.

On the third day, when the parents and sisters had gone away, cinderella went once more to her mother’s grave and said to the little tree –

     shiver and quiver, my little tree,

     silver and gold throw down over me.

And now the bird threw down to her a dress which was more splendid and magnificent than any she had yet had, and the slippers were golden.  And when she went to the festival in the dress, no one knew how to speak for astonishment.  The king’s son danced with her only, and if any one invited her to dance, he said this is my partner.

When evening came, cinderella wished to leave, and the king’s son was anxious to go with her, but she escaped from him so quickly that he could not follow her.  The king’s son, however, had employed a ruse, and had caused the whole staircase to be smeared with pitch, and there, when she ran down, had the maiden’s left slipper remained stuck.  The king’s son picked it up, and it was small and dainty, and all golden.  Next morning, he went with it to the father, and said to him, no one shall be my wife but she whose foot this golden slipper fits.  Then were the two sisters glad, for they had pretty feet.  The eldest went with the shoe into her room and wanted to try it on, and her mother stood by.  But she could not get her big toe into it, and the shoe was too small for her.  Then her mother gave her a knife and said, cut the toe off, when you are queen you will have no more need to go on foot.  The maiden cut the toe off, forced the foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the king’s son.  Then he took her on his his horse as his bride and rode away with her.  They were obliged, however, to pass the grave, and there, on the hazel-tree, sat the two pigeons and cried –

turn and peep, turn and peep,

     there’s blood within the shoe,

     the shoe it is too small for her,

     the true bride waits for you.

Then he looked at her foot and saw how the blood was trickling from it.  He turned his horse round and took the false bride home again, and said she was not the true one, and that the other sister was to put the shoe on.  Then this one went into her chamber and got her toes safely into the shoe, but her heel was too large.  So her mother gave her a knife and said,  cut a bit off your heel, when you are queen you will have no more need to go on foot.  The maiden cut a bit off her heel, forced her foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the king’s son.  He took her on his horse as his bride, and rode away with her, but when they passed by the hazel-tree, the two pigeons sat on it and cried –

     turn and peep, turn and peep,

     there’s blood within the shoe,

     the shoe it is too small for her,

     the true bride waits for you.

He looked down at her foot and saw how the blood was running out of her shoe, and how it had stained her white stocking quite red.  Then he turned his horse and took the false bride home again.  This also is not the right one, said he, have you no other daughter.  No, said the man, there is still a little stunted kitchen-wench which my late wife left behind her, but she cannot possibly be the bride.  The king’s son said he was to send her up to him, but the mother answered, oh, no, she is much too dirty, she cannot show herself.  But he absolutely insisted on it, and cinderella had to be called.  She first washed her hands and face clean, and then went and bowed down before the king’s son, who gave her the golden shoe.  Then she seated herself on a stool, drew her foot out of the heavy wooden shoe, and put it into the slipper, which fitted like a glove.  And when she rose up and the king’s son looked at her face he recognized the beautiful maiden who had danced with him and cried, that is the true bride.  The step-mother and the two sisters were horrified and became pale with rage, he, however, took cinderella on his horse and rode away with her.  As they passed by the hazel-tree, the two white doves cried –

turn and peep, turn and peep,

     no blood is in the shoe,

     the shoe is not too small for her,

     the true bride rides with you,

and when they had cried that, the two came flying down and placed themselves on cinderella’s shoulders, one on the right, the other on the left, and remained sitting there. When the wedding with the king’s son was to be celebrated, the two false sisters came and wanted to get into favor with cinderella and share her good fortune.  When the betrothed couple went to church, the elder was at the right side and the younger at the left, and the pigeons pecked out one eye from each of them.  Afterwards as they came back the elder was at the left, and the younger at the right, and then the pigeons pecked out the other eye from each.  And thus, for their wickedness and falsehood, they were punished with blindness all their days.