Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.

Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew they face or name.
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,
Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?

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.

Water, water, every where.
Not any a drop to drink.

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert

"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail."

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And – which is more – you'll be a Man, my son!

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table.