The Meads A little river stretch’d away In wild meanders ‘twixt the grass, Or here, or there, amid the hay, Till past my rapture it doth pass; \nWhere dapple gray and yellow green Creep round me as I lay, And nothing seen, no word is heard, From all so free at play. \nFor there are bees that hardly sting, And winds with whispers blest, While I am fill’d with the meanest thing That marks my heart’s unrest. \nWhose simple shade, whose breast do thrill Would, for thy sight, take longer steps, As here beside the stream, whose chill Yet gives an echo—but, accepts.

• George Meredith