Verse > Anthologies > Francis T. Palgrave, ed. > The Golden Treasury
Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury.  1875.
W. Wordsworth
CCLXXXI. The Two April Mornings
WE walk'd along, while bright and red 
  Uprose the morning sun; 
And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, 
  "The will of God be done!" 
A village schoolmaster was he,         5
  With hair of glittering gray; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
  On a spring holiday. 
And on that morning, through the grass 
  And by the steaming rills  10
We travell'd merrily, to pass 
  A day among the hills. 
"Our work," said I, "was well begun; 
  Then, from thy breast what thought, 
Beneath so beautiful a sun,  15
  So sad a sigh has brought?" 
A second time did Matthew stop; 
  And fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
  To me he made reply:  20
"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
  Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this, which I have left 
  Full thirty years behind. 
"And just above yon slope of corn  25
  Such colours, and no other, 
Were in the sky that April morn, 
  Of this the very brother. 
"With rod and line I sued the sport 
  Which that sweet season gave,  30
And coming to the church, stopp'd short 
  Beside my daughter's grave. 
"Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
  The pride of all the vale; 
And then she sang,—she would have been  35
  A very nightingale. 
"Six feet in earth my Emma lay; 
  And yet I loved her more— 
For so it seem'd—than till that day 
  I e'er had loved before.  40
"And turning from her grave, I met, 
  Beside the churchyard yew, 
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet 
  With points of morning dew. 
"A basket on her head she bare;  45
  Her brow was smooth and white: 
To see a child so very fair, 
  It was a pure delight! 
"No fountain from its rocky cave 
  E'er tripp'd with foot so free;  50
She seem'd as happy as a wave 
  That dances on the sea. 
"There came from me a sigh of pain, 
  Which I could ill confine; 
I look'd at her, and look'd again:  55
  And did not wish her mine!" 
Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
  Methinks I see him stand 
As at that moment, with a bough 
  Of wilding in his hand.  60

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