something from wordsworth

There's not a nook within this solemn 

                                                                Pass

                                           But were an apt confessional for One

 

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn

    gone, 

That life is but a tale of morning grass

Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase

That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes

Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes

                                      more clear than glass

         
 Untouched, unbreathed upon.

Thrice 

   happy quest,

If from a golden perch of aspen spray

(October's workmanship to rival May)

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast

That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,

Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest

(my copy of English Romantic verse and I)

Visited Dove Cottage and Rydal Mount in Grasmere, where Wordsworth lived and wrote some poems, or lots of poems. I'm obviously pleased.