To these our noisy and self-boasting days
In this green valley rested, trod these ways,
With deep calm breast this air inspiring breathed.
True bard, because true man, his brow he wreathed
With wild-flowers only, singing Nature’s praise;
But Nature turn’d, and crown’d him with her bays,
And said, ‘Be thou my Laureate.’ Wisdom sheathed
In song love-humble; contemplations high,
That built like larks their nests upon the ground;
Insight and vision; sympathies profound,