I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’t is my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from Heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?



See:
A. J. George (editor), Selections from Wordsworth, Boston: D. C. Heath & Co., 1889, pp. 11-12

See also:
Selections from Wordsworth: With a Brief Sketch of His Life, Cincinnati: Robert Clarke & Co., 1886, pp. 35-36
T. J. Cobden-Sanderson (editor), Wordsworth: An Anthology, Thavies Inn (London, England): [self-published?], 1920, p. 111 (the Archive.org site says this book was published in New York, with no evidence; however, the title page says “Thavies Inn”, and page 256 says it was “Printed at The Complete Press, West Norwood, London”)
The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language, London: Oxford University Press, 1921, p. 282

Notes by Andrew Guild:
This poem is by William Wordsworth, who was born in England in 1770, and died in 1850.
The spelling of “’t is” (with a space) is in the original book.

Advertisements