381. Written in Early Spring

William Wordsworth (1770—1850)

  I HEARD a thousand blended notes

  While in a grove I sate reclined,

  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

  Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

  To her fair works did Nature link

  The human soul that through me ran;

  And much it grieved my heart to think

  What Man has made of Man.

  Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

  The periwinkle trail’d its wreaths;

  And ’tis my faith that every flower

  Enjoys the air it breathes.

  The birds around me hopp’d and play’d,

  Their thoughts I cannot measure,—

  But the least motion which they made

  It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.

  The budding twigs spread out their fan

  To catch the breezy air;

  And I must think, do all I can,

  That there was pleasure there.

  If this belief from heaven be sent,

  If such be Nature’s holy plan,

  Have I not reason to lament

  What Man has made of Man?