![How Sweet It Is, When Mother Fancies Frocks, By: William Wordsworth](https://i0.wp.com/poetrycatalog.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/06/How-Sweet-It-Is-When-Mother-Fancies-Frocks-By-William-Wordsworth.png?resize=750%2C420&ssl=1)
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,
When she stands cresting the Clown’s head, and mocks
The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.