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written in early spring.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
To her fair works did nature link
Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes;
And 'tis my
faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd:
But the least motion which they made,
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If I these thoughts may not prevent,
What man has made of man?
There is a thorn; it looks so old,
Not higher than a two-years' child,
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens it is overgrown.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And all had joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor thorn for ever.
High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain-path,
you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond
Of water, never dry;
I've measured it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
And close beside this aged thorn,
All lovely colours there you see,
The work had woven been,
And cups, the darlings of the eye,