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
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
(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!
More verses by William Wordsworth
- From The Dark Chambers Of Dejection Freed
- Composed Near Calais, On The Road Leading To Ardres, August 7, 1802
- Young England--What Is Then Become Of Old
- Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 X. Rob Roy’s Grave .
- Composed By The Sea-Side, Near Calais, August 1802