Page:The Recluse, Wordsworth, 1888.djvu/28

16 They tempt the sun to sport among their plumes;

Tempt the smooth water, or the gleaming ice,

To show them a fair image,—'tis themselves,

Their own fair forms upon the glimmering plain

Painted more soft and fair as they descend,

Almost to touch,—then up again aloft,

Up with a sally and a flash of speed,

As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!

—This day is a thanksgiving, 'tis a day

Of glad emotion and deep quietness;

Not upon me alone hath been bestowed,

Me rich in many onward-looking thoughts,

The penetrating bliss; oh surely these

Have felt it, not the happy choirs of spring,

Her own peculiar family of love

That sport among green leaves, a blither train!