The grass hung wet on Rydal banks, The golden day with pearls adorning, When side by side with him we walked To meet midway the summer morning. The west wind took a softer breath, The sun himself seemed brighter shining, As through the porch the minstrel stepped, His eye sweet Nature’s look enshrining. He passed along the dewy sward, The linnet sang aloft, “Good morrow!” He plucked a bud, the flower awoke And smiled without one pang of sorrow. He spoke of all that graced the scene In tones that fell like music round us; We felt the charm descend, nor strove To break the rapturous spell that bound us. We listened with mysterious awe, Strange feeling mingling with our pleasure; We heard that day prophetic words,— High thoughts the heart must always treasure. Great Nature’s Priest! thy calm career, Since that sweet morn, on earth has ended; But who shall say thy mission died When, winged for heaven, thy soul ascended?
With Wordsworth at Rydal
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