William Wordsworth

(1770-1850 / Cumberland / England)

The Trosachs

Poem by William Wordsworth

THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
   But were an apt confessional for one
   Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
   That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
   Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
   If from a golden perch of aspen spray
   (October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
   That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!


Comments about The Trosachs by William Wordsworth

  • Ruta MohapatraRuta Mohapatra (8/26/2018 12:28:00 PM)

    'That Life is but a tale of morning grass
    Wither'd at eve'........So thinks man!
    The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
    That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
    Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest! '...........So thinks the bird!
    Wonderfully expressed!(Report)Reply

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Read poems about / on: october, autumn, summer, nature, happy, heaven, life, river



Poem Submitted: Saturday, January 4, 2003