Dear art thou to the light of heaven,
Though minister of sorrow; Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ; And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, Shalt take thy place with Yarrow !
(Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord, What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing, Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's Lord, For precious tremblings in your bosom found!
Not in the mines beyond the western main, You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought, Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought Into this flexible yet faithful Chain;
Nor is it silver of romantic Spain But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was brought, Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly vain, Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being: Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound
MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveller lies
· Which he forbears again to look upon; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone. If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: With Thought and Love companions of our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her des Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
Чев у 23,
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