XI

And oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality: Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Eyes of some men travel far

For the finding of a star;

Up and down the heavens they go,

Men that keep a mighty rout!

I'm as great as they, I trow,

Since the day I found thee out,

Little Flower!-I'll make a stir,

Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an Elf

Bold, and lavish of thyself;

Since we needs must first have met,
I have seen thee, high and low,

Thirty years or more, and yet

'Twas a face I did not know;

WORDSWORTH'S SEAT AT RYDAL MOUNT.

Photogravure from a photograph.

Many of Wordsworth's poems were composed by him while occupying this seat.