On Hearing the Ranz des Vaches on the Top of the Pass of Saint Gothard

William Wordsworth

I LISTEN,—but no faculty of mine

Avails those modulations to detect,

Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect

With tenderest passion; leaving him to pine

(So fame reports) and die,—his sweet-breathed kine

Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked

With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject

The tale as fabulous.—Here while I recline,

Mindful how others by this simple strain

Are moved, for me,—upon this mountain named

Of God himself from dread pre-eminence,—

Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed,

Yield to the music’s touching influence;

And joys of distant home my heart enchain.