William Wordsworth, please do the honors: I wander'd 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; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. [...] They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
The bitter November air has chilled her to the bone by the time he finds her, lying helpless on the concrete path surrounded by fallen, browned leaves. "Amelia?" He whispers, but receives no reply. He takes her in his arms, her skin frighteningly cold against his own. "Talk to me, Millie."