With each recurrence of this glorious morn
That saw the Saviour in his human frame
Rise from the dead, 'erewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment, till that hour unworn:
Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime
These humble props disdained not! O green dales!
Sad may 'I' be who heard your sabbath chime
When Art's abused inventions were unknown;
Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own;
And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!
Composed In One Of The Valleys Of Westmoreland, On Easter Sunday
William Wordsworth
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Poem topics: green, home, nature, peace, sad, fresh, human, wealth, rise, unknown, humble, reason, beneath, domestic, sublime, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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