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By William Wordsworth
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.Copyright ©2006 William Wordsworth
All right reserved.
Written in Very Early Youth
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.
Excerpted from Essential Wordsworth by William Wordsworth Copyright ©2006 by William Wordsworth. Excerpted by permission.
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