How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks

— by William Wordsworth

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.