Уильям Вордсворт (William Wordsworth)

Rydal

ADIEU, Rydalian laurels! that have grown
And spread as if ye knew that days might come
When ye would shelter in a happy home,
On this fair mount, a poet of your own,
One who ne’er ventured for a Delphic crown
To sue the god; but, haunting your green shade
All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid
Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship self-sown.
Farewell! no minstrels now with harp new-strung
For summer wandering quiet their household bowers;
Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue
To cheer the itinerant on whom she pours
Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors
Or, musing, sits forsaken halls among.

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