Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself, Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, 20 Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day. Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the Thrush Has a thought about its nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; 30 Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none. Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude; Never heed them; I aver That they all are wanton Wooers; But the thrifty Cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home, Spring is coming, Thou art come! 40 Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost shew thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood. In the lane--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee. Ill befal the yellow Flowers, Children of the flaring hours! 50 Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine! Prophet of delight and mirth, Scorn'd and slighted upon earth! Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, 60 Singing at my heart's command, In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love! TO THE SAME FLOWER. 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 risen 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 mold 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 sigh'd to measure By myself a lonely pleasure; Sigh'd 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.