Perhaps one morning
going into the glassy air,
arid, looking back,
I will see
the miracle take place:
nothingness behind me,
emptiness behind me,
with a drunken terror.
Then, as if on a screen,
suddenly
Trees houses hills
will rise
for the usual deception.
But it will be too late;
and I will go quietly
Among men who turn not away,
with my secret.
Of these streets that plunge the sunset,
there must be one (which, I don't know)
that I have walked
for the last time,
indifferent
and without guessing it,
subjecting
to the one who predetermines
omnipotent rules
and a secret and rigid measure
for the shadows,
the dreams and the forms
that unweave and weave this life.
I wandered 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 stretched
in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I
at a glance,
Tossing their heads
in sprightly dance.