by William Wordsworth
Pleasures newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet:
February last, my heart
First at sight of thee was glad;
All unheard of as thou art,
Thou must needs, I think, have had,
And long ago.
Praise of which I nothing know.
In medieval lore, it was believed that mother birds dropped the juice of the celandine into the eyes of their blind fledglings.