There it is—a completed picture; do what you will with it! Reading it, is like a swift, glad stepping along the borders of the brook.
Now listen for a little to Wordsworth; it is a scrap from Tintern Abbey:—
“Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,