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  • Counter :
  • 667
  • Date :
  • 2/7/2011



William Wordsworth

      CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.

      The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;

      The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

      Is cropping audibly his later meal:

      Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal

      O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

      Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,

      Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal

      That grief for which the senses still supply

      Fresh food; for only then, when memory                          10

      Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain

      Those busy cares that would allay my pain;

      Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel

      The officious touch that makes me droop again.

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