William Wordsworth

May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn Hic jacet!

Drink, pretty creature, drink!

Something between a hindrance and a help.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away

A youth to whom was given So much of earth—so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood.

And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,

Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own."

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!"

I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.

O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.

The eye—it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

— A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was forever hurled. For me—farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.

All men feel something of an honorable bigotry for the objects which have long continued to please them.