Читать книгу Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 1 - William Wordsworth - Страница 1

  In youth from rock to rock I went

  From hill to hill, in discontent

  Of pleasure high and turbulent,

          Most pleas'd when most uneasy;

  But now my own delights I make,

  My thirst at every rill can slake,

  And gladly Nature's love partake

          Of thee, sweet Daisy!

  When soothed a while by milder airs,

  Thee Winter in the garland wears 10

  That thinly shades his few grey hairs;

           Spring cannot shun thee;

  Whole summer fields are thine by right;

  And Autumn, melancholy Wight!

  Doth in thy crimson head delight

           When rains are on thee.

  In shoals and bands, a morrice train,

  Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane;

  If welcome once thou count'st it gain;

           Thou art not daunted, 20

  Nor car'st if thou be set at naught;

  And oft alone in nooks remote

  We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

           When such are wanted.

  Be Violets in their secret mews

  The flowers the wanton Zephyrs chuse;

  Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews

          Her head impearling;

  Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,

  Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 30

  Thou art indeed by many a claim

          The Poet's darling.

  If to a rock from rains he fly,

  Or, some bright day of April sky,

  Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie

          Near the green holly,

  And wearily at length should fare;

  He need but look about, and there

  Thou art! a Friend at hand, to scare

          His melancholy. 40

  A hundred times, by rock or bower,

  Ere thus I have lain couch'd an hour,

  Have I derived from thy sweet power

          Some apprehension;

  Some steady love; some brief delight;

  Some memory that had taken flight;

  Some chime of fancy wrong or right;

          Or stray invention.

  If stately passions in me burn,

  And one chance look to Thee should turn, 50

  I drink out of an humbler urn

          A lowlier pleasure;

  The homely sympathy that heeds

  The common life, our nature breeds;

  A wisdom fitted to the needs

          Of hearts at leisure.

  When, smitten by the morning ray,

  I see thee rise alert and gay,

  Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play

          With kindred motion: 60

  At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press

  The ground, as if in thankfulness,

  Without some feeling, more or less,

          Of true devotion.

  And all day long I number yet,

  All seasons through, another debt,

  Which I wherever thou art met,

          To thee am owing;

  An instinct call it, a blind sense;

  A happy, genial influence, 70

  Coming one knows not how nor whence,

          Nor whither going.

  Child of the Year! that round dost run

  Thy course, bold lover of the sun,

  And chearful when the day's begun

          As morning Leveret,

  Thou long the Poet's praise shalt gain;

  Thou wilt be more belov'd by men

  In times to come; thou not in vain

          Art Nature's Favorite. 80