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’T WAS that delightful season when the broom, | |
| Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, | |
| Along the copses runs in veins of gold. | |
| Our pathway led us on to Rotha’s banks; | |
| And when we came in front of that tall rock | 5 |
| That eastward looks, I there stopped short, and stood | |
| Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye | |
| From base to summit; such delight I found | |
| To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, | |
| That intermixture of delicious hues, | 10 |
| Along so vast a surface, all at once, | |
| In one impression, by connecting force | |
| Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. | |
| When I had gazed perhaps two minutes’ space, | |
| Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld | 15 |
| That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. | |
| The rock, like something starting from a sleep, | |
| Took up the lady’s voice, and laughed again; | |
| That ancient woman seated on Helm Crag | |
| Was ready with her cavern; Hammar Scar, | 20 |
| And the tall steep of Silver How, sent forth | |
| A noise of laughter; Southern Loughrigg heard, | |
| And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone; | |
| Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky | |
| Carried the lady’s voice,—old Skiddaw blew | 25 |
| His speaking-trumpet; back out of the clouds | |
| Of Glaramara southward came the voice, | |
| And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. | |
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