School poetry remembered

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
the forests of the night.
As yet the early rising sun’s
not really burning bright.

Gazing where the lilies blow,
athwart the surging tide,
the music in my heart I bore
— the dog it was that died.

I listened, motionless and still,
and when I counted up the till,
the money in a cart I bore
to Alfie’s place beside the shore.

And still they gazed
and still the wonder grew,
how one small flower could blossom
on the grave of mad Carew.

What immortal hand or eye
can frame the sylvan cot?
Some kinds of education
are better left forgot.

— ‘What’s the poet’s  theme, young man?
Why is he disturbed?’

— ‘The poet’s feeling sad, Sir,
cos he wants to be a bird.’



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