Page:The Recluse, Wordsworth, 1888.djvu/51

Rh And in and all about that playful band,

Incapable although they be of rest,

And in their fashion very rioters,

There is a stillness; and they seem to make

Calm revelry in that their calm abode.

Them leaving to their joyous hours I pass,

Pass with a thought the life of the whole year

That is to come: the throng of woodland flowers

And lilies that will dance upon the waves.

Say boldly then that solitude is not

Where these things are: he truly is alone,

He of the multitude whose eyes are doomed

To hold a vacant commerce day by day

With Objects wanting life—repelling love;

He by the vast metropolis immured,

Where pity shrinks from unremitting calls,