Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/31

23 How sweet, on this autumnal day,

The wild wood's fruits to gather,

And on my True-love's forehead plant

A crest of blooming heather!

And what if I enwreathed my own!

'Twere no offence to reason;

The sober Hills thus deck their brows

To meet the wintry season.

I see—but not by sight alone,

Lov'd Yarrow, have I won thee;

A ray of Fancy still survives—

Her sunshine plays upon thee!

Thy ever-youthful waters keep

A course of lively pleasure;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,

Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the Heights,

They melt—and soon must vanish;

One hour is theirs', nor more is mine—

Sad thought, which I would banish,

But that I know, where'er I go,

Thy genuine image, Yarrow,

Will dwell with me—to heighten joy,

And cheer my mind in sorrow.