POEMS OLD AND NEW

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;

I saw her. singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;—

I listen'd, motionless and still ;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE

EARTH has not anything to show more fair ;

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by :

A sight so touching in its majesty :

The City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields and to the sky ;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep !

The river glideth at his own sweet will ; c

Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ;

And all that mighty heart is lying still !

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN
WAYS
SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love :
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