Page:The Recluse, Wordsworth, 1888.djvu/40

28 With motions of true dignity and grace?

Or must we seek that stream where Man is not?

Methinks I could repeat in tuneful verse,

Delicious as the gentlest breeze that sounds

Through that aerial fir-grove—could preserve

Some portion of its human history

As gathered from the Matron's lips, and tell

Of tears that have been shed at sight of it,

And moving dialogues between this Pair

Who in their prime of wedlock, with joint hands

Did plant the grove, now flourishing, while they

No longer flourish, he entirely gone,

She withering in her loneliness. Be this

A task above my skill—the silent mind

Has her own treasures, and I think of these,

Love what I see, and honour humankind.