To Wordsworth
Thine is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices — by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from the heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast in sunny garden bowers,
Read Poem The old and full of voices — by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from the heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast in sunny garden bowers,
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