Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
Earine,
Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Eftsoons, they heard a most melodious sound,
Eftsoon there steppèd forth,
Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart,
Ere, in the northern gale,
Ever let the Fancy roam,
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Fair as unshaded light; or as the day,
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see,
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
First-born of Chaos, who so fair didst come,
Foolish prater! what dost thou,
From frozen climes, and endless tracks of snow,
From the moist meadow to the withered hill,
From yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve proceed,
Hark! music speaks from out the woods and streams,
Hence, all you vain delights,
Hence, loathed Melancholy,
Hence, vain deluding joys,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's the garden she walked across,
Here, where precipitate Spring, with one light bound,
Her finger was so small, the ring,
He that loves a rosy cheek,
He who hath never warred with misery,
How delicious is the winning,
How happy is he born and taught,
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
How still the morning of the hallowed day,
How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal,
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I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
If all the world and love were young,
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
If I were thou, O Butterfly,
If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance,
I had a friend who died in early youth !
I have a name, a little name,
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
I loved him not, and yet now he is gone,
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
In her ear he whispers gaily,
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
In petticoat of green,
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
It is not that my lot is low,
It's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
It was an aged man, who stood, -
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I've thought, at gentle and ungentle hour,
Know ye the fair one whom I love?
Lay a garland on my hearse,
Let me not to the marriage of true minds,
Little Ellie sits alone,
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown,
Lone, by my solitary hearth,
Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil,
Maiden! with the meek brown eyes,
Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes,
Methinks I love all common things,
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Mother of light ! how fairly dost thou go,
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains,
My heart was heavy, for its trust had been,
My loved, my honoured, much-respected friend !
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Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
Next to these ladies, but in nought allied,
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day,
No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
November's sky is chill and drear,
Now that the winter 's gone, the earth has lost,
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Now the golden morn aloft,
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O luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen,
O Mary! at thy window be,
0! my love 's like the stedfast sun,
O my luve 's like a red, red rose,
On a day (alack the day!)
O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray,
O that those lips had language ! life has passed,
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
O Time! who knowest a lenient hand to lay,
O were my love yon lilac fair,
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Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Queen of the silver bow! by thy pale beam,
Reach, with your whiter hands, to me,
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness !
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
See, the day begins to break,
She came, she is gone, we have met,
She doth tell me where to borrow,
Shepherds all, and maidens fair,
She stood breast-high amid the corn,
She was a Phantom of delight,
Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigued I said,
Silent nymph, with curious eye!
Sing bis praises that doth keep,
Sith gone is my delight and only pleasure,
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
So forth issued the Seasons of the year,
So spake th' eternal Father, and fulfilled,
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou,
Swifter far than summer's flight,
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Take, oh, take those lips away,
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
That day I oft remember, when from sleep,
The castled crag of Drachenfels,
The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The day had been a day of wind and storm,
The finished garden to the view,
The frost performs its secret ministry,
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,
The glories of our birth and state,
The green leaves as we pass,
The ivy in a dungeon grew,
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor,
The lark had left the evening cloud,
The lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The lark now leaves his watery nest,
The Months all riding came,
The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick,
The night was winter in his roughest mood,
The north-east spends his rage ; he now shut up,
There is no flock, however watched and tended,
There is continual Spring, and harvest there,
The rising moon has hid the stars,
There 's not a joy the world can give, like that it takes away,
There were twa sisters lived in a bouir,
These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good,
The spring is here—the delicate-footed May,
The star that bids the shepherd fold,
The twentieth year is well nigh past,
The wild-winged creature, clad in gore,
The winds are bitter, the skies are wild,
The wisest of us all, when woe,
The world's great age begins anew,
This common field, this little brook,
They are all gone into a world of light,
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