A Winter's Ramble in Grasmere Vale By [Dorothy Wordsworth], 1820 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]- {anchor:inmate}\\ How ~~could~~ I but rejoice? Text source: Wu anthology, p. 437 2005-03-01 09:08:18.0 2005-02-24 16:52:19.0