Collected English Verse — William Wordsworth. b. 1770, d. 1850 (Part 8 of 8)

553   Mutability

FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,
   And sink from high to low, along a scale
   Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
   Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
   Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whiten‘d hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
   Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
   Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

554   The Trosachs

THERE‘S not a nook within this solemn Pass
   But were an apt confessional for one
   Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither‘d at eve. From scenes of art which chase
   That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
   Feed it ‘mid Nature‘s old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch‘d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
   If from a golden perch of aspen spray
   (October‘s workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
   That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

555   Speak!

WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
   Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
   Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant—
   Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The mind‘s least generous wish a mendicant
   For naught but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
   A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
   Than a forsaken bird‘s-nest fill‘d with snow
   ‘Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—
   Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know