Eskdale, Cumberland

Anonymous

No, I do not wish to see
The sunshine o'er these hills again;
Their quiet beauty wakes in me
A thousand wishes wild and vain.

I hear the skylark's matin-songs
Breathe of the heaven he singeth near;
Ah, heaven, that to our earth belongs,
Why is thy hope so seldom here?

The grass is filled with early flowers,
Whereon the dew is scarcely dry;
While singing to the silent hours
The glittering waves are murmuring by.

And fancies from afar are brought
By magic lights and wandering wind;
Such scene hath poet never sought
But he hath left his heart behind.

It is too sad to feel how blest
In such a spot might be our home;
And then to think with what unrest
Throughout this weary world we roam.