“Written in Early Spring” by William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

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  I HEARD a thousand blended notes   While in a grove I sate reclined,  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts  Bring sad thoughts to the mind.  To her fair works did Nature link  The human soul that through me ran;  And much it grieved my heart to think  What Man has made of Man.  Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,  The periwinkle trail’d its wreaths;  And ’tis my faith that every flower  Enjoys the air it breathes.  The birds around me hopp’d and play’d,  Their thoughts I cannot measure,—  But the least motion which they made  It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.  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 this belief from heaven be sent,  If such be Nature’s holy plan,  Have I not reason to lament  What Man has made of Man?

Sunrise

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“Now Morn her rosy steps in th’Eastern Clime

Advancing, sow’d the Earth with Orient Pearl,

When Adam wak’t, so custom’d, for his sleep

Was Airy light, from pure digestion bred,

And temperate vapours bland, which th’only sound

Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora’s fan,

Lightly dispers’d, and the shrill Matin Song

Of Birds on every bough . . .”

(From John Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Book V. 1671 ed.)

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