And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.

Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!

The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.