To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,

As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

(HAT way look, my infant, lo!

What a pretty baby-show!

See the kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Withered leaves one

- two

and three

From the lofty elder tree;
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round, they sink
Softly, slowly; one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed

Sylph or fairy hither tending, —
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;

There are many now

now one

Now they stop, and there are none.

What intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half-way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again;

Now she works with three or four,

Like an Indian conjurer;

Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,

Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!

WRITTEN IN MARCH

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

THE Cock is crowing,

THE

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon: There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

TO A BUTTERFLY

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I'VE watch'd you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;

And, little Butterfly! indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.

How motionless!

- not frozen seas

More motionless! and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Has found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;

Here rest your wings when they are weary;

Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song,

And summer days when we were young;

Sweet childish days that were as long
As twenty days are now.