blossoms on a tree branch with thorns


Unlike these lambs, by the time we’re on our feet we’re too old to frolic in innocent wonder.

Composed on a May Morning

— by William Wordsworth

Life with you Lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide, Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide; And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight’s lingering glooms—and in the sun Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied; Or gambol—each with his shadow at his side, Varying its shape wherever he may run. As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew All turn, and court the shining and the green, Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen; Why to God’s goodness cannot We be true, And so, His gifts and promises between, Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?