How he sleepeth! having drunken
Weary childhood's mandragore,
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Prologue
I heard an angel speak last night,
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O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
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NOW, by the verdure on thy thousand hills,
Beloved England, doth the earth appear
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IF all the gentlest-hearted friends I know
Concentred in one heart their gentleness,
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But only three in all God's universe
Have heard this word thou hast said,--Himself, beside
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I THINK we are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope
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SPEAK low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet
From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low
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LIGHT human nature is too lightly tost
And ruffled without cause, complaining on--
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WE overstate the ills of life, and take
Imagination (given us to bring down
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AND, O beloved voices, upon which
Ours passionately call because erelong
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I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
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When I attain to utter forth in verse
Some inward thought, my soul throbs audibly
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I HAVE been in the meadows all the day
And gathered there the nosegay that you see
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For ever, since my childish looks
Could rest on Nature's pictured books;
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Wordsworth upon Helvellyn ! Let the cloud
Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind,
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A THOUGHT ay like a flower upon mine heart,
And drew around it other thoughts like bees
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'O DREARY life,' we cry, ' O dreary life ! '
And still the generations of the birds
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Experience, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand,
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WHEN some beloved voice that was to you
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
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THANK God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for. That is well--
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The Saviour looked on Peter. Ay, no word,
No gesture of reproach; the Heavens serene
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I think that look of Christ might seem to say--
'Thou Peter ! art thou then a common stone
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I count the dismal time by months and years
Since last I felt the green sward under foot,
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WITH stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right
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Two savings of the Holy Scriptures beat
Like pulses in the Church's brow and breast;
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Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
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I mind me in the days departed,
How often underneath the sun
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I would build a cloudy House
For my thoughts to live in;
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There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateways
Makes fitter music to our ears than any song of thine!"
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