. . . We talked together till 11 o'clock, when Wm. got to work, and was no worse for it. Hard frost. ****** Saturday, 20th.— . . . I wrote the first part of Peter Bell. . . .
Sunday, 21st.—A very wet morning. I wrote the 2nd prologue to Peter Bell. . . . After dinner I wrote the 1st prologue. . . . Snowdrops quite out, but cold and winterly; yet, for all this, a thrush that lives in our orchard has shouted and sung its merriest all day long ...
Monday, 22nd.—Wm. brought me 4 letters to read—from Annette and Caroline,[1] Mary and Sara, and Coleridge. . . . In the evening we walked to the top of the hill, then to the bridge. We hung over the wall, and looked at the deep stream below. It came with a full, steady, yet a very rapid flow down to the lake. The sykes made a sweet sound everywhere, and looked very interesting in the twilight, and that little one above Mr. Olliff's house was very impressive. A ghostly white serpent line, it made a sound most distinctly heard of itself. The mountains were black and steep, the tops of some of them having snow yet visible.
Tuesday, 23rd.— . . . When we came out of our own doors, that dear thrush was singing upon the topmost of the smooth branches of the ash tree at the top of the orchard. How long it had been perched on that same tree I cannot tell, but we had heard its dear voice in the orchard the day through, along with a cheerful undersong made by our winter friends, the robins. As we came home, I picked up a few mosses by the roadside, which I left at home. We then went to John's Grove. There we sate a little while looking at the fading landscape. The lake, though the objects on the shore were fading, seemed brighter than when it is perfect day, and the island pushed itself upwards, distinct and large. All the shores marked. There was
- ↑ See "Poetical Works," vol. ii. p. 335.—Ed.
