Page:The Recluse, Wordsworth, 1888.djvu/21

Rh Its one green island and its winding shores;

The multitude of little rocky hills,

Thy Church and cottages of mountain stone

Clustered like stars some few, but single most,

And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,

Or glancing at each other cheerful looks

Like separated stars with clouds between.

What want we? have we not perpetual streams,

Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields,

And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds,

And thickets full of songsters, and the voice

Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound

Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,

Admonishing the man who walks below