I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made br Against the bitter East their barricade, br And, guided by its sweet br Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, br The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell br Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet. br br From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines br Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines br Lifted their glad surprise, br While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees br His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, br And snow-drifts lingered under April skies. br br As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent, br I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent, br Which yet find room, br Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, br To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day br And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.