William Wordsworth

We take no note of time
But from its loss.

We take no note of time
But from its loss.

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live.

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live.

Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, linnet! in thy read more

Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.

I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
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I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath often left me mourning.

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.