THERE ‘s not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither’d at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it ‘mid Nature’s old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch’d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October’s workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
You May Also Like:
- The Morning Of The Day Appointed For A General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816
- Composed After A Journey Across The Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire
- The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons – Dedication
- Tribute To The Memory Of The Same Dog
- The Martial Courage Of A Day Is Vain
- To The Same (John Dyer)
- Sonnet: It is not to be thought of that the Flood
- Repentance
Leave a Reply