Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
William Wordsworth. 17701850540. The Trosachs
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 | |
Wither’d at eve. From scenes of art which chase | 5 |
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes | |
Feed it ‘mid Nature’s old felicities, | |
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass | |
Untouch’d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, | |
If from a golden perch of aspen spray | 10 |
(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! |