Child of the clouds! remote from every taint
Of sordid industry thy lot is cast;
Thine are the honours of the lofty waste;
Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint,
Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint
Thy cradle decks;–to chant thy birth, thou hast
No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast,
And Desolation is thy Patron-saint!
She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would not spare
Those mighty forests, once the bison’s screen,
Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair
Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest green
Thousands of years before the silent air
Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen!
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
More by William Wordsworth
- The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - III - How Shall I Paint Thee?
- The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - IV - Take, Cradled Nursling Of The Mountain
- The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - V - Sole Listener, Duddon! To The Breeze That Played
- The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - VI - Flowers
- The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - VII - Change Me, Some God, Into That Breathing Rose!
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