Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 1. William Wordsworth

        In youth from rock to rock I went

        From hill to hill, in discontent

        Of pleasure high and turbulent,

                Most pleas'd when most uneasy;

        But now my own delights I make,

        My thirst at every rill can slake,

        And gladly Nature's love partake

                Of thee, sweet Daisy!

        When soothed a while by milder airs,

        Thee Winter in the garland wears 10

        That thinly shades his few grey hairs;

                 Spring cannot shun thee;

        Whole summer fields are thine by right;

        And Autumn, melancholy Wight!

        Doth in thy crimson head delight

                 When rains are on thee.

        In shoals and bands, a morrice train,

        Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane;

        If welcome once thou count'st it gain;

                 Thou art not daunted, 20

        Nor car'st if thou be set at naught;

        And oft alone in nooks remote

        We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

                 When such are wanted.

        Be Violets in their secret mews

        The flowers the wanton Zephyrs chuse;

        Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews

                Her head impearling;

        Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,

        Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 30

        Thou art indeed by many a claim

                The Poet's darling.

        If to a rock from rains he fly,

        Or, some bright day of April sky,

        Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie

                Near the green holly,

        And wearily at length should fare;

        He need but look about, and there

        Thou art! a Friend at hand, to scare

                His melancholy. 40

        A hundred times, by rock or bower,

        Ere thus I have lain couch'd an hour,

        Have I derived from thy sweet power

                Some apprehension;

        Some steady love; some brief delight;

        Some memory that had taken flight;

        Some chime of fancy wrong or right;

                Or stray invention.

        If stately passions in me burn,

        And one chance look to Thee should turn, 50

        I drink out of an humbler urn

                A lowlier pleasure;

        The homely sympathy that heeds

        The common life, our nature breeds;

        A wisdom fitted to the needs

                Of hearts at leisure.

        When, smitten by the morning ray,

        I see thee rise alert and gay,

        Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play

                With kindred motion: 60

        At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press

        The ground, as if in thankfulness,

        Without some feeling, more or less,

                Of true devotion.

        And all day long I number yet,

        All seasons through, another debt,

        Which I wherever thou art met,

                To thee am owing;

        An instinct call it, a blind sense;

        A happy, genial influence, 70

        Coming one knows not how nor whence,

                Nor whither going.

        Child of the Year! that round dost run

        Thy course, bold lover of the sun,

        And chearful when the day's begun

                As morning Leveret,

        Thou long the Poet's praise shalt gain;

        Thou wilt be more belov'd by men

        In times to come; thou not in vain

                Art Nature's Favorite. 80

        I met Louisa in the shade;

        And, having seen that lovely Maid,

        Why should I fear to say

        That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong;

        And down the rocks can leap along,

        Like rivulets in May?

        And she hath smiles to earth unknown;

        Smiles, that with motion of their own

        Do spread, and sink, and rise;

        That come and go with endless play, 10

        And ever, as they pass away,

        Are hidden in her eyes.

        She loves her fire, her Cottage-home;

        Yet o'er the moorland will she roam

        In weather rough and bleak;

        And when against the wind she strains,

        Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains

        That sparkle on her cheek.

        Take all that's mine 'beneath the moon',

        If I with her but half a noon 20

        May sit beneath the walls

        Of some old cave, or mossy nook,

        When up she winds along the brook,

        To hunt the waterfalls.

        A barking sound the Shepherd hears,

        A cry as of a Dog or Fox;

        He halts, and searches with his eyes

        Among the scatter'd rocks:

        And now at distance can discern

        A stirring in a brake of fern;

        From which immediately leaps out

        A Dog, and yelping runs about.

        The Dog is not of mountain breed;

        It's motions, too, are wild and