Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/142

134 "Thus fares it still in our decay:

And yet the wiser mind

Mourns less for what age takes away

Than what it leaves behind.

"The Blackbird in the summer trees,

The Lark upon the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.

"With Nature never do they wage

A foolish strife; they see

A happy youth, and their old age

Is beautiful and free:

"But we are pressed by heavy laws;

And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because

We have been glad of yore.

"If there is one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

The household hearts that were his own,

It is the man of mirth.