William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

BRIGHT flower, whose home is everywhere!

Bold in maternal Nature’s care,

And all the long year through, the heir

Of joy or sorrow.

Methinks that there abides in thee

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,

Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason,

But Thou would’st teach him how to find

A shelter under every wind,

A hope for times that are unkind

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 willing;

Meek, yielding to the occasion’s call,

And all things suffering from all,

Thy function apostolical

In peace fulfilling.