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WRITTEN IN MARCH,
While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water.
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
Like an army defeated
The Snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill; The Plough-boy is whooping — anon — anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
Yet are they here?—the same unbroken knot
— Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone
while I Have been a Traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer, Yet as I left I find them here!The weary Sun betook himself to rest.
— Then issued Vesper from the fulgent West,
Outshining like a visible God
Behold the mighty Moon! this way
She looks as if at them — but they Regard not her : — oh better wrong and strife, (By nature transient) than such torpid life!
The silent Heavens have goings-on;
The stars have tasks — but these have none! Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven and earth! In scorn I speak not; — they are what their birth
And breeding suffers them to be;
Wild outcasts of society!
She had a tall Man's height, or more; No bonnet screened her from the heat; A long drab-coloured Cloak she wore, A Mantle reaching to her feet: What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.
In all my walks, through field or town, Such Figure had I never seen: Her face was of Egyptian brown: Fit person was she for a Queen, To head those ancient Amazonian files: Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles.