Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/348

288 In clouds above, the Lark is heard,—

He sings his blithest and his best;

But in this lonesome nook the Bird

Did never build his nest.

No Beast, no Bird hath here his home;

The Bees borne on the breezy air

Pass high above those fragrant bells

To other flowers, to other dells,

Nor ever linger there.

The Danish Boy walks here alone:

The lovely dell is all his own.

A spirit of noon-day is he,

He seems a Form of flesh and blood;

Nor piping Shepherd shall he be,

Nor Herd-boy of the wood.

A regal vest of fur he wears,

In colour like a raven's wing;

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;

But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue

As budding pines in Spring;

His helmet has a vernal grace,

Fresh as the bloom upon his face.