William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

* * *

HOW sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,--
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks
The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream  
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.

1. To the Memory of Raisley Calvert
2. Rural Architecture
3. The Sparrow's Nest
4. Ellen Irwin, Or the Braes of Kirtle
5. Upon the Sight of a Beautiful Picture Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1710

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