Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance— If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence-wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream, EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY (1798) "Why, William, on that old gray stone Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away? Where are your books?—that light bequeathed To Beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed You look round on your Mother Earth, One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, "The eye-it cannot choose but see; Nor less I deem that there are Powers Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? -Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone, THE TABLES TURNED AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT (1798) Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow, Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! Come forth into the light of things, She has a world of ready wealth, One impulse from a vernal wood Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. THREE YEARS SHE GREW (1799) Three years she grew in sun and shower, On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; Myself will to my darling be In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the fawn And hers shall be the breathing balm, The floating clouds their state shall lend Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm, Grace that shall mold the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake The work was done How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS (1799) She dwelt among the untrodden ways A Maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone She lived unknown, and few could know MICHAEL A Pastoral Poem (1800) If from the public way you turn your steps |