"A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags"

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,A rude and natural causeway, interposedBetween the water and a winding slopeOf copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shoreOf Grasmere safe in its own privacy:And there myself and two belovèd Friends,One calm September morning, ere the mistHad altogether yielded to the sun,Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.--Ill suits the road with one in haste; but wePlayed with our time; and, as we strolled along,It was our occupation to observeSuch objects as the waves had tossed ashore--Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,Each on the other heaped, along the lineOf the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuftOf dandelion seed or thistle's beard,That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,Suddenly halting now--a lifeless stand!And starting off again with freak as sudden;In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,Making report of an invisible breezeThat was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.--And often, trifling with a privilegeAlike indulged to all, we paused, one now,And now the other, to point out, perchanceTo pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fairEither to be divided from the placeOn which it grew, or to be left aloneTo its own beauty. Many such there are,Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;Plant lovelier, in its own retired abodeOn Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the sideOf Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.--So fared we that bright morning: from the fields,Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirthOf reapers, men and women, boys and girls.Delighted much to listen to those sounds,And feeding thus our fancies, we advancedAlong the indented shore; when suddenly,Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seenBefore us, on a point of jutting land,The tall and upright figure of a ManAttired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,Angling beside the margin of the lake."Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed,"The Man must be, who thus can lose a dayOf the mid harvest, when the labourer's hireIs ample, and some little might be storedWherewith to cheer him in the winter time."Thus talking of that Peasant, we approachedClose to the spot where with his rod and lineHe stood alone; whereat he turned his headTo greet us--and we saw a Man worn downBy sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeksAnd wasted limbs, his legs so long and leanThat for my single self I looked at them,Forgetful of the body they sustained.--Too weak to labour in the harvest field,The Man was using his best skill to gainA pittance from the dead unfeeling lakeThat knew not of his wants. I will not sayWhat thoughts immediately were ours, nor howThe happy idleness of that sweet morn,With all its lovely images, was changedTo serious musing and to self-reproach.Nor did we fail to see within ourselvesWhat need there is to be reserved in speech,And temper all our thoughts with charity.--Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,My Friend, Myself, and She who then receivedThe same admonishment, have called the placeBy a memorial name, uncouth indeedAs e'er by mariner was given to bayOr foreland, on a new-discovered coast;And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears.