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THE RAINBOW

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Y heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;

So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!

The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE

BUTTERFLY

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

RT thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin?

The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird that by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother:
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes,

And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.
-If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,

Under the branches of the tree:

In and out he darts about;

Can this be the bird to man so good,

That after their bewildering,

Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, robin, that thou couldst pursue

A beautiful creature,

That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the Summer sky,

From flower to flower let him fly;

'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The cheerer, Thou, of our indoor sadness,
He is the friend of our Summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the Summer weather,
And fly about in the air together ?
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thy own:
Wouldst thou be happy in thy nest,
Oh, pious bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!

AT

THE REVERY OF POOR SUSAN

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

T the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three

years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, '
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

THE

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

HE days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;

Then hush again upon my breast;

All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty Love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light,
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane bedropped with rain:
There, little darling! sleep again,

And wake when it is day.

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