 | The Cup of Quietness |  |
35
WASTWATER
Recluse of lakes, whose dark tranquillity
No season moves; not to that valley blest
Where all that died of Wordsworth lies at rest,
Nor where the grace of Derwent glideth by,
Or Windermere receives the enamoured sky—
Not unto these, but unto thy stern breast,
And thine o'erclouded brows, the soul oppressed
With sorrow's burden comes for sympathy.
No season moves; not to that valley blest
Where all that died of Wordsworth lies at rest,
Nor where the grace of Derwent glideth by,
Or Windermere receives the enamoured sky—
Not unto these, but unto thy stern breast,
And thine o'erclouded brows, the soul oppressed
With sorrow's burden comes for sympathy.
For thou dost hold thy solemn state apart
From those familiar splendours; giants keep
Their vigil o'er thy solitude; weird forms
Of mist are gathered to thy troubled heart;
Sadly the sunbeams on thy bosom sleep;
Abode of gloom and congregated storms.
From those familiar splendours; giants keep
Their vigil o'er thy solitude; weird forms
Of mist are gathered to thy troubled heart;
Sadly the sunbeams on thy bosom sleep;
Abode of gloom and congregated storms.
| The Cup of Quietness | |