William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

Rydal

ADIEU, Rydalian laurels! that have grown
And spread as if ye knew that days might come
When ye would shelter in a happy home,
On this fair mount, a poet of your own,
One who ne’er ventured for a Delphic crown
To sue the god; but, haunting your green shade
All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid
Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship self-sown.
Farewell! no minstrels now with harp new-strung
For summer wandering quiet their household bowers;
Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue
To cheer the itinerant on whom she pours
Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors
Or, musing, sits forsaken halls among.

1. The Kirk of Ulpha
2. Remembrance of Collins
3. Lines
4. Mosgiel Farm
5. The River Duddon (WHENCE that low voice?)

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