William Wordsworth


Well may'st thou halt-and gaze with brightening eye! The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! But covet not the Abode;-forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look; Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. Think what the home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched, would melt away.

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