In vain through every changeful year 

 Did nature lead him as before ; 

 A primrose by a river's brim, 

 A yellow primrose was to him, 

 And it was nothing more. 



At noon, when by the forest's edge 

 He lay beneath the branches high, 

 The soft blue sky did never melt 

 Into his heart ; he never felt 

 The witchery of the soft blue sky. 



WORDSWORTH. 



To him who in the love of Nature holds 

 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

 A various language. 



BRYANT. 



