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47
THE WOOD-ROSE.
When Wordsworth found those beds of daffodilBeside the lake, a pleasant sight he saw;
I came upon a sweetbriar near a rill,
In all its summer bloom, without a flaw:
The set of all its flowers my thought recalls,
And how they took the wind with easy grace;
They rode their arches, shook their coronals,
And stirred their streamers o'er the water's face.
And oh! to watch those azure demoiselles
Glimpsing about the rosy sprays, that dipt
Among the weeds,—how daintily equipt
They were! how pure their blue against the pink!
Light, flitting forms, that haunt our ponds and wells,
Seen, lost and seen, along the reedy brink.
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