William Wordsworth

The Danish Boy

I BETWEEN two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowerets of the hills, And sacred to the sky. And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a lonely hut; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy. II In clouds above, the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest. No beast, no bird hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers:--to other dells Their burthens do they bear; The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own. III A Spirit of noon-day is he; Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; Nor piping shepherd shall he be, Nor herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue As budding pines in spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face. IV A harp is from his shoulder slung; Resting the harp upon his knee, To words of a forgotten tongue He suits its melody. Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, The mountain-ponies prick their ears, --They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sings alone Beside the tree and corner-stone. V There sits he; in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove: From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0