The daffodil is our doorside queen; she pushes upward the sword already, To spot with sunshine the early green.

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

Is life worth living? Yes, so long As Spring revives the year, And hails us with the cuckoo's song, To show that she is here;

Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid A million buds but stay their blossoming And trustful birds have built their nests amid The shuddering boughs, and only…

And in my flower-beds, I think, Smile the carnation and the pink.