Thee Winter in the garland wears
  That thinly decks his few grey hairs; 10
  Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
    That she may sun thee; [4]
  Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
  And Autumn, melancholy Wight! 
  Doth in thy crimson head delight 15
    When rains are on thee.

  In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
  Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane;
  Pleased at his greeting thee again;
    Yet nothing daunted, 20
  Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:  [5]
  And oft alone in nooks remote
  We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
    When such are wanted.

  Be violets in their secret mews 25
  The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
  Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
    Her head impearling,
  Thou liv’st with less ambitious aim,
  Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 30
  Thou art indeed by many a claim
      The Poet’s darling.

  If to a rock from rains he fly,
  Or, some bright day of April sky,
  Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 35
      Near the green holly,
  And wearily at length should fare;
  He needs [6] but look about, and there
  Thou art!—­a friend at hand, to scare
      His melancholy. 40

  A hundred times, by rock or bower,
  Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
  Have I derived from thy sweet power
      Some apprehension;
  Some steady love; some brief delight; [7] 45
  Some memory that had taken flight;
  Some chime [8] of fancy wrong or right;
      Or stray invention.

  If stately passions in me burn,
  And one [9] chance look to Thee should turn, 50
  I drink out of an humbler urn
      A lowlier pleasure;
  The homely sympathy that heeds
  The common life, our nature breeds;
  A wisdom fitted to the needs 55
      Of hearts at leisure.

  Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
  When thou art up, alert and gay,
  Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play
      With kindred gladness:  [10] 60
  And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
  Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest
  Hath often eased my pensive breast
      Of careful sadness. [11]

  And all day long I number yet, 65
  All seasons through, another debt,
  Which I, wherever thou art met,
      To thee am owing; [12]
   An instinct call it, a blind sense;
  A happy, genial influence, 70
  Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
      Nor whither going.