Admonition

 by William Wordsworth

Admonition 

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. 

A Night Thought 

Lo! where the Moon along the sky

Sails with her happy destiny;

Oft is she hid from mortal eye

Or dimly seen,

But when the clouds asunder fly

How bright her mien!

Far different we--a froward race,

Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace

With cherished sullenness of pace

Their way pursue, 

Ingrates who wear a smileless face

The whole year through.

If kindred humours e'er would make

My spirit droop for drooping's sake,

From Fancy following in thy wake,

Bright ship of heaven!

A counter impulse let me take

And be forgiven. 

A Parsonage In Oxfordshire 

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,

Is marked by no distinguishable line;

The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;

And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends,

Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,

And neighbours rest together, here confound

Their several features, mingled like the sound

Of many waters, or as evening blends

With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,

Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; 

And while those lofty poplars gently wave

Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky

Bright as the glimpses of eternity,

To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 

A Sketch 

The little hedgerow birds,

That peck along the road, regard him not.

He travels on, and in his face, his step,

His gait, is one expression; every limb,

His look and bending figure, all bespeak

A man who does not move with pain, but moves

With thought. -He is insensibly subdued

To settled quiet: he is one by whom

All effort seems forgotten; one to whom

Long patience hath such mild composure given

That patience now doth seem a thing of which

He hath no need. He is by nature led

To peace so perfect, that the young behold

With envy what the Old Man hardly feels.