Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/130

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sad vacuities his heart annoy;—

Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy;

For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale;

He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale;

For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn,

And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn!

Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head,

And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread;

Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye?

Upward he looks—"and calls it luxury;"

Kind Nature's charities his steps attend,

In every babbling brook he finds a friend,

While chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed

By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road.

Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower,

To his spare meal he calls the passing poor;