Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/172

150 Flowers left to wither on triumphal arcs,

And window-garlands. On the public roads,

And, once, three days successively, through paths

By which our toilsome journey was abridged,

Among sequestered villages we walked

And found benevolence and blessedness

Spread like a fragrance everywhere, when spring

Hath left no corner of the land untouched:

Where elms for many and many a league in files

With their thin umbrage, on the stately roads

Of that great kingdom, rustled o'er our heads,

For ever near us as we paced along:

How sweet at such a time, with such delight

On every side, in prime of youthful strength,

To feed a Poet's tender melancholy

And fond conceit of sadness, with the sound

Of undulations varying as might please

The wind that swayed them; once, and more than once,

Unhoused beneath the evening star we saw

Dances of liberty, and, in late hours

Of darkness, dances in the open air

Deftly prolonged, though grey-haired lookers on

Might waste their breath in chiding.

Under hills—

The vine-clad hills and slopes of Burgundy,