Page:Poems and extracts - Wordsworth.djvu/58

 Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though all these pleasures past Nothing now remains at last But remembrance, poor relief That more makes than mends my grief; She's my minds companion still Maugre envy's evil will, Whence she should be driven too Wer't in mortals power to do. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow, Makest the desolatest place To her presence be a grace, And the blackest discontents To be pleasing ornaments. In my former days of bliss Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some invention draw, Rh