Edward will come with you-and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living calendar:

We from to-day, my Friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now a universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth:

-It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than years of toiling reason:1

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,2

Which they shall long obey:

We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:

They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;

And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

In editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, "Lines written at a small distance from my house, and sent by my little boy to the person to whom they were addressed." From 1820 to 1843 the title was, "To my Sister; written at a small distance from my house, and sent by my little boy." After 1845 it was simply "To my Sister."

The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be identified.-ED.

[Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where these verses were written in the spring of 1799. I had the pleasure of again seeing, with dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years after.]

A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill

Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;
Then all at once the air was still,

And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless oaks towered high above,

I sat within an undergrove

Of tallest hollies, tall and green;

A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er,
And all the year the bower is green.1
But see where'er the hailstones drop
The withered leaves all skip and hop;
There's not a breeze-no breath of air-
Yet here, and there, and every where

You could not lay a hair between,
And all the year the bower is green.

1800.

Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there,
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.1 2

And all those leaves, that jump and spring,
Were each a joyous living thing.

2 In edd. 1800 to 1805, the following lines are added—
Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease

That I may never cease to find,

Even in appearances like these

Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!

1800.

[This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned on many occasions. It was composed in front of the house at Alfoxden, in the spring of 1798.]

"WHY, William, on that old grey stone

Thus for the length of half a day,

Why, William, sit you thus alone,

And dream your time away?

Where are your books?—that light bequeathed

To Beings else forlorn and blind!

Up! up and drink the spirit breathed

From dead men to their kind.

You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

"The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against, or with our will.

Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;

That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum

Of things for ever speaking,

That nothing of itself will come,

But we must still be seeking?

-Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,

I sit upon this old grey stone,

And dream my time away."

THE TABLES TURNED.

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

1

1820.

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;1

Or surely you'll grow double:

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

Up! up my friend, and clear your looks,
!
Why all this toil and trouble?

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double.

1798.

The sun, above the mountain's head,

A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:

Come, hear the woodland linnet,

How sweet his music! on my life,

There's more of wisdom in it..

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:1

Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,

Our minds and hearts to bless

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-
We murder to dissect.

1

1815.

And he is no mean preacher.

1798.