Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
10 Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:

15 Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless-
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
20 Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

25 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;

30 Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.

THREE YEARS SHE GREW

(1799)

Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;

This Child I to myself will take;
5 She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.

Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me
The Girl, in rock and plain,

10 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn 15 Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

The floating clouds their state shall lend 20 To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the Storm,

Grace that shall mold the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

25 The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound

30 Shall pass into her face.

And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

35 While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake The work was done
How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

40 This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS

(1799)

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love:

5 A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
-Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

10

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

MICHAEL

A Pastoral Poem

(1800)

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent 5 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation can be seen; but they

10 Who journey thither find themselves alone

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites

That overhead are sailing in the sky.

It is in truth an utter solitude;

Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
15 But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones:
And to that simple object appertains
A story unenriched with strange events,
20 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,

Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved:-not verily

25 For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode.

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency

30 Of natural objects, led me on to feel

For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)

On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history

35 Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.

40

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age

Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
45 Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.

Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,
50 When others heeded not, he heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.

The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
55 "The winds are now devising work for me!"
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
60 That came to him, and left him, on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's
thoughts.

65 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed

The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
He had so often climbed; which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
70 Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain,

Those fields, those hills-what could they less? had laid

75 Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love,

The pleasure which there is in life itself.