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High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a
scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale ; Not five yards from
the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy ; And to the left, three yards ...
Now wherefore, thus, by day and night. In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to
the dreary mountain-top Does this poor Woman go ? And why sits she beside the
Thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky, Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, ...
And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 'Twas
worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek : For many a
time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain-head : Some plainly
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain :
Brach, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, Follow, and up the weary mountain
strain. The Knight hallooed, he chid and cheered them on With suppliant ...
... Tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld. — Blen- cathara,
mentioned before, is the old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called
Saddle-back. Page 233. lines 19. and 20. — " Armour rusting 346 NOTES.
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the kitten of the filling leaves bp[y willam words worth
My favorite is "Solitary Reaper". When I first read it, I fell in love with the poem. It's like Wordsworth wrote it for me only.
I always feel understood and totally embraced everytime I read this poem and walk away with a full heart.