Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/137

129 My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirr'd,

For the same sound is in my ears,

Which in those days I heard.

Thus fares it still in our decay:

And yet the wiser mind

Mourns less for what age takes away

Than what it leaves behind.

The blackbird in the summer trees,

The lark upon 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: