LINES WRITTEN IN SPRING 135 



What stays thee from the clouded noons, 

 Thy sweetness from its proper place? 

 Can trouble live with April days, 



Or sadness in the summer moons? 



Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 

 The little speedwell's darling blue, 

 Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew; 



Laburnums, dropping wells of fire. 



O thou, new year, delaying long, 

 Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 

 That longs to burst a frozen bud, 



And flood a fresher throat with song. 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 



BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



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 sweet bower, 

 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 



