WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
554 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
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!
555 Speak!
WHY art thou silent' Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair ? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant
Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For naught but what thy happiness could spare. Speak though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know.
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