William Wordsworth

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.

The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising:
There are forty feeding like one!

The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising:
There are forty feeding like one!

List--'twas the cuckoo--O, with what delight
Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint,
Far read more

List--'twas the cuckoo--O, with what delight
Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint,
Far off and faint, and melting into air,
Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again!
Those louder cries give notice that the bird,
Although invisible as Echo's self,
Is wheeling hitherward.