A Winter's Ramble in Grasmere Vale

A stranger, Grasmere, in thy vale,
All faces then to me unknown,
I left my sole companion-friend
To wander out alone.

Lured by a little winding path,
Quickly I left the public road,
A smooth and tempting path it was,
By sheep and shepherds trod.

Eastward, towards the lofty hills
That pathway led me on
Until I reached a stately rock
With velvet moss o'ergrown.

With russet oak and tufts of fern
Its top was richly garlanded,
Its sides adorned with eglantine
Bedropped with hips of mossy red.

There, too, in many a sheltered chink
The foxglove's broad leaves flourished fair,
And silver birch whose purple twigs
Bend to the softest breathing air.

Beneath that rock my course I stayed,
And, looking to its summit high,
"Thou wearest," said I, "a splendid garb--
Here winter keeps his revelry.

Full long a dweller on the plains,
I grieved when summer days were gone;
No more I'll grieve, for winter here
Hath pleasure-gardens of his own.

What need of flowers? The splendid moss
Is gayer than an April mead-
More rich its hues of varied green,
Orange, and gold, and glowing red."

Beside that gay and lovely rock
There came with merry voice
A foaming streamlet glancing by-
It seemed to say, "Rejoice!"

My youthful wishes all fulfilled,
Wishes matured by thoughtful choice,
I stood an inmate of the vale-
How could I but rejoice?

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