Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/179

119 Making all kindness register'd and known;

Thou for our sakes, though Nature's Child indeed,

Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,

Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,

That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost shew

To them who look not daily in thy face;

Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,

And say'st when we forsake thee, "Let them go!"

Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race

Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,—

And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell her tales of years gone by,

And this sweet spring the best beloved and best.

Joy will be flown in its mortality;

Something must stay to tell us of the rest.

Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast

Glitter'd at evening like a starry sky;

And in this Bush our Sparrow built her nest,

Of which I sung one Song that will not die.