Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/299

239 An instinct call it, a blind sense;

A happy, genial influence,

Coming one knows not how nor whence,

Nor whither going.

Child of the Year! that round dost run

Thy course, bold lover of the sun,

And cheerful when the day's begun

As morning Leveret,

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;

Dear shalt thou be to future men

As in old time;—thou not in vain,

Art Nature's Favorite.