One morning (raw it was and wet,

          A foggy day in winter time)

          A Woman in the road I met,

          Not old, though something past her prime:

          Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

        And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

          The ancient Spirit is not dead;

          Old times, thought I, are breathing there;

          Proud was I that my country bred

          Such strength, a dignity so fair: 10

          She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate;

        I look'd at her again, nor did my pride abate.

          When from these lofty thoughts I woke,

          With the first word I had to spare

          I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak

          What's that which on your arm you bear?"

          She answer'd soon as she the question heard,

        "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

          And, thus continuing, she said,

          "I had a Son, who many a day 20

          Sail'd on the seas; but he is dead;

          In Denmark he was cast away;

          And I have been as far as Hull, to see

        What clothes he might have left, or other property."

          "The Bird and Cage they both were his;

          'Twas my Son's Bird; and neat and trim

          He kept it: many voyages

          This Singing-bird hath gone with him;

          When last he sail'd he left the Bird behind;

        As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind." 30

          "He to a Fellow-lodger's care

          Had left it, to be watch'd and fed,

          Till he came back again; and there

          I found it when my Son was dead;

          And now, God help me for my little wit!

        I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it."

        Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,

        Let them live upon their praises;

        Long as there's a sun that sets

        Primroses will have their glory;

        Long as there are Violets,

        They will have a place in story:

        There's a flower that shall be mine,

        'Tis the little Celandine.

        Eyes of some men travel far

        For the finding of a star; 10

        Up and down the heavens they go,

        Men that keep a mighty rout!

        I'm as great as they, I trow,

        Since the day I found thee out,

        Little flower! – I'll make a stir

        Like a great Astronomer.

        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 it's nest,

        Thou wilt come with half a call,

        Spreading out thy glossy breast

        Like a careless Prodigal; 20

        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!

        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!