"When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops
Poetry: Poems of Acclaim
- I wander'd lonely as a cloud
- That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
- When all at once I saw a crowd,
- A host, of golden daffodils;
- Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
- Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
- Continuous as the stars that shine
- And twinkle on the Milky Way,
- They stretch'd in never-ending line
- Along the margin of a bay:
- Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
- Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
- The waves beside them danced; but they
- Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
- A poet could not but be gay,
- In such a jocund company:
- I gazed-- and gazed-- but little thought
- What wealth the show to me had brought:
- For oft, when on my couch I lie
- In vacant or in pensive mood,
- They flash upon that inward eye
- Which is the bliss of solitude;
- And then my heart with pleasure fills,
- And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)