Between Namur and Liege

— by William Wordsworth

What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose? Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains, War’s favourite playground, are with crimson stains Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews? The Morn, that now, along the silver Meuse, Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade, With its grey rocks clustering in pensive shade— That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still!