The Trosachs
By William Wordsworth
Theres 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
Witherd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it mid Natures old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouchd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(Octobers 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!