WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; And at its end, to stay the eye, °4Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees° stand! 5Birds here make song, each bird has his, Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is! How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! [p.76] Sometimes a child will cross the glade 10To take his nurse his broken toy; Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ. Here at my feet what wonders pass, °14What endless, active life is here°! 15What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out, And, eased of basket and of rod, 20Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. °21In the huge world,° which roars hard by, Be others happy if they can! But in my helpless cradle I °24Was breathed on by the rural Pan.° 25I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, Think often, as I hear them rave, That peace has left the upper world And now keeps only in the grave. Yet here is peace for ever new! 30When I who watch them am away, Still all things in this glade go through The changes of their quiet day. Then to their happy rest they pass! The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, 35The night comes down upon the grass, The child sleeps warmly in his bed. [p.77] Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, 40Man did not make, and cannot mar. The will to neither strive nor cry, °42The power to feel with others give°! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live.