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Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed:

The best of his skill he has tried ;

His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth

To the east and the west, to the south and the north; But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh!
His eyesight and hearing are lost ;

Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.

No brother, no mate has he near him—while I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;
As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,

As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain

Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds.

And back to the forests again!

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It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before

The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you;—and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living calendar :

We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.

* Written at Alfoxden, 1798. The Edward mentioned in the fourth stanza, was young Basil Montagu, by whom the Poet sent the pencilled lines to his sister.

Love, now a universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth :
—It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more
years of toiling reason:

Than

*

Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.†

Some silent laws our hearts will make,

Which they shall long obey :

We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:

They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

* Than fifty years of reason.-Edit. 1815.

Compare this stanza with the sixth stanza of "The Tables Turned."

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.*

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

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

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,†
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure :

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

* Written in 1798, while sitting by the side of the brook that runs down the Comb, in which is the village of Alford, near Alfoxden.

† that sweet bower -Edit. 1815.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,*
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE
COUNTRY.

DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail!
-There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold;

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
Thy own heart-stirring days, and be

A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a shepherd boy,

And treading among flowers of joy
Which at no season fade,†

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,

Shalt show us how divine a thing

A Woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh
A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright,

And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.

1803.

* If I these thoughts may not prevent,

If such be of my creed the plan.-Edit. 1815.

As if thy heritage were joy,

And pleasure were thy trade.-Edit. 1815.

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