The Trossachs

THE TROSSACHS

William Wordswoth

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass

Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities
Rocks, rivers and smooth lakes more clear than glass

Untouch'd, unbreathed upon :- Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmannship to rival May),

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest !