The Wind-Swayed Daisies, That On Every Side Throng The Wide Fields In Whispering Companies, Serene And Gently Smiling Like The Eyes Of Tender Children Long Beatified, The Delicate Thought-Wrapped Buttercups That Glide Like Sparks Of Fire Above The Wavering Grass, And Swing And Toss With All The Airs That Pass, Yet Seem So Peaceful, So Preoccupied; These Are The Emblems Of Pure Pleasures Flown, I Scarce Can Think Of Pleasure Without These. Even To Dream Of Them Is To Disown The Cold Forlorn Midwinter Reveries, Lulled With The Perfume Of Old Hopes New-Blown, No Longer Dreams, But Dear Realities.