I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat 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 is grieved my heart to think,
What man has made of man?
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.
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?
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Grieved : pained
Twig : a small branch
Lament : to weep
