By
William Wordsworth
The
sylvan slopes with
corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with
golden shields,
Bright
trophies of the sun!
Like a
fair sister of the sky,
Unruffled doth the
blue lake lie,
The mountains looking on.
And, sooth to say, yon
vocal grove,
Albeit uninspired by love,
By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the Spring.
For 'that' from
turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from
some uneasy seat
In nature's struggling frame,
Some region of impatient life:
And jealousy, and quivering strife,
Therein a portion claim.
This,
this is holy;--while I hear
These
vespers of another year,
This
hymn of thanks and praise,
My spirit seems to mount above
The anxieties of human love,
And
earth's precarious days.
But
list!--though winter storms be nigh,
Unchecked is that
soft harmony:
There lives
Who can provide
For all his creatures; and in Him,
Even like the radiant
Seraphim,
These choristers confide.
Wow. You people really don't like English Romanticism, huh?