But when I leave that straiter mood, That lonely hour, and put aside The continence of solitude, I fall in treason to my pride, And if a witling’s word be spent Upon my song in jealousy, In anger and in argument I am as derelict as he.
I have four loves, four loves are mine, My wife who makes all beauty be, Tom Squire and Master Candleshine, And then my grey dog Timothy.
My wife makes bramble-berry pies, And she is bright as bramble dew, She knows the way the weather flies, And tells me every thing to do.
Tom Squire he is my neighbour man, His apples fall upon my grass, And in the morning, when we can, We say good-morning as we pass.
And Master Candleshine the True, Considering some fault of mine, Says—“Had it been for me to do, It had been hard for Candleshine.”
When I have thought all things that be, And drop the latch and climb the stair, And want an eye for company, My grey dog Timothy is there.
My loves are one and two and three And four they are, good loves of mine, Tom Squire, my grey dog Timothy, My wife and Master Candleshine.
I send you daffodils, my dear, For these are emperors of spring, And in my heart you keep so clear So delicate an empery, That none but emperors could be Ambassadors endowed to bring My messages of honesty.
My mind makes faring to and fro, Deft or bewildered, dark or kind, That not the eye of God may know Which motion is of true estate And which a twisted runagate Of all the farings of my mind, And which has honesty for mate.
Only my hope for you is clean Of scandal’s use, and though, may be, Far rangers have my passions been,— Since thus the word of Eden went,— Yet of the springs of my content, My very wells of honesty, Are you the only firmament.
All words are said, And may it fall That, crowning these, You here shall find A friendly bed, A sheltering wall, Your body’s ease, A quiet mind.
May you forget In happy sleep The world that still You hold as friend, And may it yet Be ours to keep Your friendly will To the world’s end.
For he is blest Who, fixed to shun All evil, when The worst is known, Counts, east and west, When life is done, His debts to men In love alone.
ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS
To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book, She who so comforted those Grasmere days When song was at the flood, and thence I took A larger note of fortitude and praise.