"When, to the Attractions of the Busy World"

When, to the attractions of the busy world,Preferring studious leisure, I had chosenA habitation in this peaceful Vale,Sharp season followed of continual stormIn deepest winter; and, from week to week,Pathway, and lane, and public road, were cloggedWith frequent showers of snow. Upon a hillAt a short distance from my cottage, standsA stately Fir-grove, whither I was wontTo hasten, for I found, beneath the roofOf that perennial shade, a cloistral placeOf refuge, with an unincumbered floor.Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I lothTo sympathise with vulgar coppice birdsThat, for protection from the nipping blast,Hither repaired.--A single beech-tree grewWithin this grove of firs! and, on the forkOf that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest;A last year's nest, conspicuously builtAt such small elevation from the groundAs gave sure sign that they, who in that houseOf nature and of love had made their homeAmid the fir-trees, all the summer longDwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock,Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,From the remotest outskirts of the grove,--Some nook where they had made their final stand,Huddling together from two fears--the fearOf me and of the storm. Full many an hourHere did I lose. But in this grove the treesHad been so thickly planted, and had thrivenIn such perplexed and intricate array;That vainly did I seek, beneath their stemsA length of open space, where to and froMy feet might move without concern or care;And, baffled thus, though earth from day to dayWas fettered, and the air by storm disturbed,I ceased the shelter to frequent, --and prized,Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.

The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returnedTo clothe the fields with verdure. Other hauntsMeanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day,By chance retiring from the glare of noonTo this forsaken covert, there I foundA hoary pathway traced between the trees,And winding on with such an easy lineAlong a natural opening, that I stoodMuch wondering how I could have sought in vainFor what was now so obvious. To abide,For an allotted interval of ease,Under my cottage-roof, had gladly comeFrom the wild sea a cherished Visitant;And with the sight of this same path--begun,Begun and ended, in the shady grove,Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mindThat, to this opportune recess allured,He had surveyed it with a finer eye,A heart more wakeful; and had worn the trackBy pacing here, unwearied and alone,In that habitual restlessness of footThat haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and o'erHis short domain upon the vessel's deck,While she pursues her course through the dreary sea.

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,And taken thy first leave of those green hillsAnd rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth,Year followed year, my Brother! and we two,Conversing not, knew little in what mouldEach other's mind was fashioned; and at lengthWhen once again we met in Grasmere Vale,Between us there was little other bondThan common feelings of fraternal love.But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carriedUndying recollections; Nature thereWas with thee; she, who loved us both, she stillWas with thee; and even so didst thou becomeA silent Poet; from the solitudeOf the vast sea didst bring a watchful heartStill couchant, an inevitable ear,And an eye practised like a blind man's touch.--Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone;Nor from this vestige of thy musing hoursCould I withhold thy honoured name,--and nowI love the fir-grove with a perfect love.Thither do I withdraw when cloudless sunsShine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong;And there I sit at evening, when the steepOf Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful lake,And one green island, gleam between the stemsOf the dark firs, a visionary scene!And, while I gaze upon the spectacleOf clouded splendour, on this dream-like sightOf solemn loveliness, I think on thee,My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost.Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou,Muttering the verses which I muttered firstAmong the mountains, through the midnight watchArt pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deckIn some far region, here, while o'er my head,At every impulse of the moving breeze,The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound,Alone I tread this path;--for aught I know,Timing my steps to thine; and, with a storeOf undistinguishable sympathies,Mingling most earnest wishes for the dayWhen we, and others whom we love, shall meetA second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale.