Grasmere SHUT out from all that wars against the soul, The shocks that jar the music of the heart, The pleasures lasting only in the smart Of that regret which feigns a perfect whole Where naught was full; the frequent rubs that wear Our loves away, and strip us for the fight With the rough world; alone, in calm delight Of peace, content, and joy, art thou, Grasmere! O lake most fair set round with mountain-guards, Sweet birds, swift streams, eternal waterfall, Crag-lichen, and wild vale-flower, all, yea, all Shall eye and ear in love oft turn towards: I thank thee for much lore that doth not dwell With books nor men: farewell, bright spot, farewell! |
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