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As when he shines above it. ‘Tis in truth

       The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

      And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov’d

       With such communion, that no place on earth

       Can ever be a solitude to me,

       Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.

      IV.

      A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,

       A rude and natural causeway, interpos’d

       Between the water and a winding slope

       Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore

       Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.

       And there, myself and two beloved Friends,

       One calm September morning, ere the mist

       Had altogether yielded to the sun,

       Saunter’d on this retir’d and difficult way.

       — Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we

       Play’d with our time; and, as we stroll’d along,

      It was our occupation to observe

       Such objects as the waves had toss’d ashore,

       Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither’d bough,

       Each on the other heap’d along the line

       Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood,

       Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft

       Of dandelion seed or thistle’s beard,

       Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell’d

       By some internal feeling, skimm’d along

       Close to the surface of the lake that lay

       Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on

       Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there,

       In all its sportive wanderings all the while

       Making report of an invisible breeze

       That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,

       Its very playmate, and its moving soul.

      — And often, trifling with a privilege

       Alike indulg’d to all, we paus’d, one now,

       And now the other, to point out, perchance

       To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair

       Either to be divided from the place

       On which it grew, or to be left alone

       To its own beauty. Many such there are,

       Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant

       So stately, of the Queen Osmunda nam’d,

       Plant lovelier in its own retir’d abode

       On Grasmere’s beach, than Naid by the side

       Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere

       Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance.

       — So fared we that sweet morning: from the fields

       Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth

       Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.

      Delighted much to listen to those sounds,

       And in the fashion which I have describ’d,

       Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc’d

       Along the indented shore; when suddenly,

       Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw

       Before us on a point of jutting land

       The tall and upright figure of a Man

       Attir’d in peasant’s garb, who stood alone

       Angling beside the margin of the lake.

       That way we turn’d our steps: nor was it long,

       Ere making ready comments on the sight

       Which then we saw, with one and the same voice

       We all cried out, that he must be indeed

       An idle man, who thus could lose a day

       Of the mid harvest, when the labourer’s hire

       Is ample, and some little might be stor’d

       Wherewith to chear him in the winter time.

      Thus talking of that Peasant we approach’d

       Close to the spot where with his rod and line

       He stood alone; whereat he turn’d his head

       To greet us — and we saw a man worn down

       By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks

       And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean

       That for my single self I look’d at them,

       Forgetful of the body they sustain’d. —

       Too weak to labour in the harvest field,

       The man was using his best skill to gain

       A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake

       That knew not of his wants. I will not say

       What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how

       The happy idleness of that sweet morn,

       With all its lovely images, was chang’d

       To serious musing and to self-reproach.

      Nor did we fail to see within ourselves

       What need there is to be reserv’d in speech,

       And temper all our thoughts with charity.

       — Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,

       My Friend, Myself, and She who then receiv’d

       The same admonishment, have call’d the plate

       By a memorial name, uncouth indeed

       As e’er by Mariner was giv’n to Bay

       Or Foreland on a new-discover’d coast,

       And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.

      V.

      To M. H.

      Our walk was far among the ancient trees:

       There was no road, nor any woodman’s path,

       But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth

       Of weed sapling, on the soft green turf

       Beneath the branches of itself had made

       A track which brought us to a slip of lawn,

       And a small bed of water in the woods.

      All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink

       On its firm margin, even as from a well

       Or some stone-bason which the Herdsman’s hand

       Had shap’d for their refreshment, nor did sun

       Or wind from any quarter ever come

       But as a blessing to this calm recess,

       This glade of water and this one green field.

       The spot was made by Nature for herself:

       The travellers know it not, and ‘twill remain

       Unknown to them; but it is beautiful,

       And if a man should plant his cottage near.

       Should sleep beneath the shelter of its tress,

       And blend its waters with his daily meal,

       He would so love it

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