Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/126

118 The birds around me hopped and played:

Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,

If such be of my creed the plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?