Thy soul is not enchanted by the moon;
No influential comet draws thy mind
To steeps intolerable where all behind
Is dark, and many ruin’d stars are strewn.
But thou, contented, canst enthrall the tune
That haunts each wood and every singing wind;
Thou, fortunate philosopher, canst find
The dreams of Earth in every drowsy noon.

Match not thy soul against the seraphim:
They are no more than moths blown to and fro
About the tempest of the eternal Will.
Rest undismay’d in field and forest dim
And, childlike, on some morning thou shalt know
The certain faith of a March daffodil.