William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

While resting on the Bridge at the foot of Brother’s Water

THE COCK is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The Snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon:

There’s joy in the mountains;

There’s life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!