Emerson

IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,

To please the desert and the sluggish brook.

The purple petals fallen in the pool

Made the black water with their beauty gay;

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,

Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask; I never knew;

But in my simple ignorance suppose

The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

Wordsworth

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,

The stretched 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

Outdid 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 to me the show 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.

Mary Thacher Higginson

IN shining groups, each stem a pearly ray,

Weird flecks of light within the shadowed wood,

They dwell aloof, a spotless sisterhood.

No Angelus, except the wild bird's lay,

Awakes these forest nuns; yet night and day

Their heads are bent, as if in prayerful mood.

A touch will mar their snow, and tempests rude

Defile; but in the mist fresh blossoms stray

From spirit-gardens just beyond our ken.

Each year we seek their virgin haunts, to look

Upon new loveliness, and watch again

Their shy devotions near the singing brook;

Then, mingling in the dizzy stir of men,

Forget the vows made in that cloistered nook.

William Cullen Bryant

WHEN beechen buds begin to swell,

And woods the blue-bird's warble know,

The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from last-year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,

Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume

Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring

First plant thee in the watery mould,

And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,

And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,

And earthward bent thy gentle eye,

Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk;

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May

I passed thee on thy humple stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget

The friends in darker fortunes tried;

I copied them--but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour

Awakes the painted tribes of light,

I'll not o'er look the modest flower

That made the woods of April bright.

So this is the New Year Catch-up