from _HOME_AT_GRASMERE_ William Wordsworth c. 1806 =============================== But the gates of Spring Are opened; churlish Winter hath given leave That she should entertain for this one day, Perhaps for many genial days to come, His guests, and make them jocund. They are pleased, But most of all, the Birds that haunt the flood, With the mild summons, inmates though they be Of Winter's household. They keep festival This day, who drooped or seemed to droop so long; They show their pleasure, and shall I do less? Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, Mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, One of a mighty multitude whose way Is a perpetual harmony and dance Magnificent. Behold, how with a grace Of ceaseless motion that might scarcely seem Inferior to angelical, they prolong Their curious pastime, shaping in mid air, (And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars High as the level of the mountain tops) A circuit ampler than the lake beneath, Their own domain; but ever, while intent On tracing and retracing that large round, Their jubilant activity evolves Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, Upwards and downwards, progress intricate Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done, Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased, But lo! the vanished company again Ascending--they approach--I hear their wings: Faint, faint at first, and then an eager sound, Passed in a moment, and as faint again! They tempt the sun to sport among their plumes; Tempt the smooth water or the gleaming ice To show them a fair image. 'Tis themselves, Their own fair forms upon the glimmering plain, Painted more soft and fair as they descend, Almost to touch, then up again aloft, Up with a sally and a flash of speed, As if they scorned both resting-place and rest. (188-229 [MS. D]) ======== ========