And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd. Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone, and often-times When others heeded not, He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say The winds are now devising work for me!Īnd truly at all times the storm, that drives The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists That came to him and left him on the heights. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts, And with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills Will be my second self when I am gone. It was the first, The earliest of those tales that spake to me Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men Whom I already lov'd, not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode.Īnd hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think At random and imperfectly indeed On man the heart of man and human life. Beside the brook There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side, Or for the summer shade. It is in truth an utter solitude, Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. No habitation there is seen but such As journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky.
But, courage! for beside that boisterous Brook The mountains have all open'd out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle in such bold ascent The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face.
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