Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/297

237 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,

Yet hast not gone without thy fame;

Thou art indeed by many a claim

The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,

Or, some bright day of April sky,

Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie

Near the green holly,

And wearily at length should fare;

He need but look about, and there

Thou art!—a Friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower,

Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,

Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight;

Some memory that had taken flight;

Some chime of fancy wrong or right;

Or stray invention.