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. 
