A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore— Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. Not seldom did we And, in our vacant mood, stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake. Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand! And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, WORDSWORTH. NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE. UP this green woodland side let's softly rove, Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn, CLARE. |