letra de the trosachs by william wordsworth - ghizela rowe
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there’s not a nook within this solemn pass
but were an apt confessional for one
taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone
that life is but a tale of morning grass
wither’d at eve. from scenes of art which chase
that thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
feed it ’mid nature’s old felicities
rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
untouch’d, unbreathed upon. thrice happy quest
if from a golden perch of aspen spray
(october’s workmanship to rival may)
the pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
that moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay
lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
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