I heard a thousand blended notes while in a grove I
sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring
sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link the human
soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think what man
has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, the
periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower enjoys the
air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played, their
thoughts I cannot measure.
But the least motion which they made, it seemed a
thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan, to
catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can, that there was
pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent, if such be
Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament what man has made
of man.
I can’t say it better than Wordsworth!
