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YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO
YES, it was the mountain Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, Giving to her sound for sound!
To a babbling wanderer sent;
Hears not also mortal Life?
Have not we too?-yes, we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recognized intelligence!
Such rebounds our inward ear
NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CON VENT'S NARROW ROOM
In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one after noon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occa sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them,-in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote except an irregular one at school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly remember is-"I grieved for Buonaparté." One was never written down: the third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot particularize. (Wordsworth.)
NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US
THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our
Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sor did boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune:
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,