![Composed In One Of The Valleys Of Westmoreland, On Easter Sunday, By: William Wordsworth](https://i0.wp.com/poetrycatalog.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/Composed-In-One-Of-The-Valleys-Of-Westmoreland-On-Easter-Sunday-By-William-Wordsworth.png?resize=750%2C420&ssl=1)
With each recurrence of this glorious morn
That saw the Saviour in his human frame
Rise from the dead, ‘erewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment, till that hour unworn:
Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime
These humble props disdained not! O green dales!
Sad may ‘I’ be who heard your sabbath chime
When Art’s abused inventions were unknown;
Kind Nature’s various wealth was all your own;
And benefits were weighed in Reason’s scales!