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Poem by William Wordsworth

“There!” said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride

Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed,

“Is Mosgiel Farm; and that’s the very field

Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy.” Far and wide

A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried

Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose;

And, by that simple notice, the repose

Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified.

Beneath “the random ‘bield’ of clod or stone”

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower

Near the lark’s nest, and in their natural hour

Have passed away; less happy than the One

That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove

The tender charm of poetry and love.

….. The End …..

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