Page:The Recluse, Wordsworth, 1888.djvu/39

Rh Of winter, nor from summer's sultry heat,

A friendly covert; "and they knew it well,"

Said she, "for thither as the trees grew up

We to the patient creatures carried food

In times of heavy snow." She then began

In fond obedience to her private thoughts

To speak of her dead husband; is there not

An art, a music, and a strain of words

That shall be life, the acknowledged voice of life,

Shall speak of what is done among the fields,

Done truly there, or felt, of solid good

And real evil, yet be sweet withal,

More grateful, more harmonious than the breath,

The idle breath of softest pipe attuned

To pastoral fancies? Is there such a stream

Pure and unsullied flowing from the heart