English poem
Child Of The Clouds! Remote From Every Taint
Child of the clouds! remote from every taint Of sordid industry thy lot is cast; Thine are the honours of the lofty waste;[A] Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint, Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint Thy cradle decks;--to chant thy birth, thou hast No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, And Desolation is thy Patron-saint![EX] She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would not spare Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen, Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair[EY] Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest green Thousands of years before the silent air Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen!
VARIANTS:
More by William Wordsworth
- Call Not The Royal Swede Unfortunate
- Calm Is The Fragrant Air, And Loth To Lose
- Change Me, Some God, Into That Breathing Rose!
- Chatsworth! Thy Stately Mansion, And The Pride
- Coldly We Spake. The Saxons, Overpowered
- Deplorable His Lot Who Tills The Ground
- Desire We Past Illusions To Recal
- Despond Who Will--_I_ Heard A Voice Exclaim