A Book of Wordsworth

Thy talks on God, and glories of His fields
Are woven into my unworthy past.
The fragments of thy thoughts my memory yields
Grow dim at times, and yet they seem to last.
This little book of verses, covered red,
A gift to me, a gift of quiet rest,
Is filled with soothing words that thou hast said;
Some chosen thoughts, the wisest and the best;-
Sweet songs and gleanings from that inward eye;
The noise of bees the wind in daffodils;
The splendour of the sea and of the sky;
And Nature standing on the silent hills.
They words, thy thoughts, for me can never cease
To have that flavour of eternal peace.