Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Sails with her happy destiny;
Oft is she hid from mortal eye
Or dimly seen,
But when the clouds asunder fly
How bright her mien!
Far different we—a froward race,
Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace
With cherished sullenness of pace
Their way pursue,
Ingrates who wear a smileless face
The whole year through.
If kindred humours e'er would make
My spirit droop for drooping's sake,
From Fancy following in thy wake,
Bright ship of heaven!
A counter impulse let me take
And be forgiven.
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Comments
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I agree with Ahkam. This poem flows beautifully. I like how it seems like it's the product of a spark inspiration Wordsworth got while gazing at the moon.
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this is very melodious but much complex...i can feel it but can't express...these are words of beauty.
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