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William Wordsworth - A Morning Exercise
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           FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
          Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;
          Sending sad shadows after things not sad,
          Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe:
          Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry
          Becomes an echo of man`s misery.
            Blithe ravens croak of death; and when the owl
          Tries his two voices for a favourite strain--
          `Tu-whit--Tu-whoo!` the unsuspecting fowl
          Forebodes mishap or seems but to complain;                  
          Fancy, intent to harass and annoy,
          Can thus pervert the evidence of joy.

            Through border wilds where naked Indians stray,
          Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill;
          A feathered task-master cries, "WORK AWAY!"
          And, in thy iteration, "WHIP POOR WILL!"
          Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave,
          Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave.

            What wonder? at her bidding, ancient lays
          Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel;                
          And that fleet messenger of summer days,
          The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell;
          But ne`er could Fancy bend the buoyant Lark
          To melancholy service--hark! O hark!

            The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn,
          Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed;
          But `He` is risen, a later star of dawn,
          Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud;
          Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark;
          The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark!               

            Hail, blest above all kinds!--Supremely skilled
          Restless with fixed to balance, high with low,
          Thou leav`st the halcyon free her hopes to build
          On such forbearance as the deep may show;
          Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties,
          Leav`st to the wandering bird of paradise.

            Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove;
          Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee;
          So constant with thy downward eye of love,
          Yet, in aerial singleness, so free;                         
          So humble, yet so ready to rejoice
          In power of wing and never-wearied voice.

            To the last point of vision, and beyond,
          Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain,
          (`Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
          Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
          Yet might`st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
          All independent of the leafy spring.

            How would it please old Ocean to partake,
          With sailors longing for a breeze in vain,                  
          The harmony thy notes most gladly make
          Where earth resembles most his own domain!
          Urania`s self might welcome with pleased ear
          These matins mounting towards her native sphere.

            Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars
          To day-light known deter from that pursuit,
          `Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars
          Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute;
          For not an eyelid could to sleep incline
          Wert thou among them, singing as they shine!
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