Grasmere

Shut out from all that wars against the soul,
The shocks that jar the music of the heart,
The pleasures lasting only in the smart
Of that regret which feigns a perfect whole
Where naught was full; the frequent rubs that wear
Our loves away, and strip us for the fight
With the rough world; alone in calm delight
Of peace, content, and joy, art thou, Grasmere!
Lake most fair set round with mountain -guards,
Sweet birds, swift streams, eternal waterfall,
Crag-lichen, and wild vale-flower, all, yea, all
Shall eye and ear in love oft turn towards:
I thank thee for much lore that doth not dwell
With books nor men: farewell, bright spot, farewell.