by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
I have a boy of five years old; His face is fresh and fair to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mold And dearly he loves me. One morn we strolled on our dry walk, Our quiet home all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do. My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, Our pleasant home when spring began, A long, long year before. A day it was when I could bear Some fond regrets to entertain; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain. The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to glade. Birds warbled round me -- and each trace Of inward sadness had its charm; Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place, And so is Liswyn farm. My boy beside me tripped, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And, as we talked, I questioned him, In very idleness. 'Now tell me, had you rather be,' I said, and took him by the arm, 'On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?' In careless mood he looked at me, While still he held me by the arm, And said, 'At Kilve I'd rather be Than here at Liswyn farm.' 'Now, little Edward, say why so: My little Edward, tell me why.' -- 'I cannot tell, I do not know,' -- Why, this is strange,' said I; 'For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: There surely must one reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea.' At this, my boy hung down his head, He blushed with shame, nor made reply; And three times to the child I said, 'Why, Edward, tell me why?' His head he raised -- there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain -- Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane. Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And eased his mind with this reply; 'At Kilve there was no weather-cock; And that's the reason why.' O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn.