William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

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Who fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around
With living Snowdrops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this Orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its Head this Coronet?

Was it the humour of a Child?
Or rather of some love-sick Maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The Shepherd Queen, were thus arrayed?
Of Man mature, or Matron sage?
Or Old-man toying with his age?

I asked—'twas whispered, The device
To each or all might well belong:
It is the Spirit of Paradise
That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,
That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.

1. Andrew Jones
2. Star Gazers
3. It Is No Spirit
4. Rob Roy's Grave
5. French Revolution

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1734

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