William Wordsworth

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried read more

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed--and cooed:
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song,--the song for me!

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the read more

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
read more

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

My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is read more

My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.

Among the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with read more

Among the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little wren's
In snugness may compare.