But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade; The sun on drearier Hollow never shone : So will it be, as I have often said, Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain all are gone.” "Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; The Being, that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For them the quiet creatures whom he loves. The Pleasure-house is dust:-behind, before, She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known; But, at the coming of the milder day, These monuments shall all be overgrown. One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs That they might answer him. And they would shout Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received This Boy was taken from his Mates, and died Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The Vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the Village School, And there, along that bank, when I have passed At evening, I believe, that oftentimes A full half-hour together I have stood Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies. |