The very, very shadow of the past, In fields of golden straw, I wander slow, And by the trees that bend for winds to blow, Where sun and shade upon my path are cast.

A whisper through the leaves is heard at last, A wayward sound of streams that freely flow, And flowers that bloom where ever winds may go, Plucking the dreams that in the heart are vast.

Sweet Nature thus speaks soft to man, To follow where the heart begins to break, And dance with every leaf and every pan,

Away from sorrow and to quiet wake, To find the peace in Nature close to hand, And wander lonely as the heart shall stand.

• William Wordsworth