Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/284

276 Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork

Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest;

A last year's nest, conspicuously built

At such small elevation from the ground

As gave sure sign that they, who in that house

Of nature and of love had made their home

Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long

Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,

A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain flock,

Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,

From the remotest outskirts of the grove,—

Some nook where they had made their final stand,

Huddling together from two fears—the fear

Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour

Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees

Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven

In such perplexed and intricate array,

That vainly did I seek, between their stems,

A length of open space,—where to and fro

My feet might move without concern or care:

And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed,

I ceased that Shelter to frequent,—and prized,

Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.

The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned

To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts