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WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did nature link
What man has made of man.
Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd:
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,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Not higher than a two-years' child,
It is a mass of knotted joints,
It stands erect, and like a stone
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
A melancholy crop :
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And all had joined in one endeavour
High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain-path,
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.
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been,
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.