In the heart of verdant meadows green,
Where streams do flow and birds serenade,
The whispers of nature softly convene,
In a symphony that Wordsworth made.

Beneath the ancient oaks so grand,
With leaves that dance to the wind’s sweet tune,
The poet’s spirit walks the land,
In the light of the silvery moon.

The daffodils in golden rows,
Stand tall and proud in morning’s grace,
Their beauty in the sunlight glows,
A testament to nature’s face.

In every brook and every glade,
Where silence speaks in hushed refrain,
Wordsworth’s legacy will never fade,
His love for nature will ever remain.