The sunshine is a-springing ground, From lands where faerie waters flow; Upon the stone and misty mound, Where wakeful winter winds do blow.

So golden are the daisies wild, I see them shine without a qualm; The bells of summer ring me mild, And softly weave the twilight’s balm.

Through every leaf and creeping flame, Art thou the power that wakes in me; A world so real is not the same, Forever in your face, I see.

• William Wordsworth