"Why William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books? that light bequeath`d
To beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath`d
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your mother earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply.
"The eye it cannot chuse but see,
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where`er they be,
Against, or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are powers,
Which of themselves our minds impress.
That we can feed this mind of ours,
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
"Conversing as I may,
"I sit upon this old grey stone,
"And dream my time away."
