'The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.
'With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free:
'But we are press'd by heavy laws;
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.
'If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,—
It is the man of mirth.
'My days, my friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved.'
'Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains!
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains:
'And Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee!'
At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
'Alas! that cannot be.'
—We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;
And ere we came to Leonard's rock
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewilder'd chimes.
W. Wordsworth