467f. Note the noble simplicity and pathos of these closing lines. There is a reserved force of pent-up pathos here, which without effort reaches the height of dramatic effectiveness. TO THE DAISY Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere, Bold in maternal Nature's care, And all the long year through the heir Of joy and sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee 5 Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest thorough! Is it that Man is soon deprest? A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 10 Does little on his memory rest, Or on his reason, And Thou would'st teach him how to find A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind, 15 And every season? Thou wander'st the wide world about, Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without, Yet pleased and wilting; 20 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, And all things suffering from all, Thy function apostolical In peace fulfilling. 8. THOROUGH. This is by derivation the correct form of the modern word "through." A.S. _thurh_, M.E. _thuruh_. The use of "thorough" is now purely adjectival, except in archaic or poetic speech. 24. APOSTOLICAL. The stanza in which this word occurs was omitted in 1827 and 1832, because the expression was censured as almost profane. Wordsworth in his dictated note to Miss Fenwick has the following: "The word [apostolical] is adopted with reference to its derivation, implying something sent out on a mission; and assuredly this little flower, especially when the subject of verse, may be regarded, in its humble degree, as administering both to moral and spiritual purposes." TO THE CUCKOO O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass, 5 Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, 15 A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. 20 To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; 25 Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.