CCXVII The Danish Boy
Between two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell 5
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a lonely hut;
And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e’er destroy, 10
The shadow of a Danish boy.
In clouds above the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest;
Within this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest. 15
No beast, no bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers; to other dells
Their burdens do they bear. 20
The Danish boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.
A Spirit of noonday is he,
Yet seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 25
Nor herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven’s wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm ’tis fresh and blue 30
As budding pines in Spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;
Resting the harp upon his knee, 35
To words of a forgotten tongue
He suits its melody.
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears, 40
The mountain ponies prick their ears,
—They hear the Danish boy,
While in the dell he sings alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.
There sits he: in his face you spy 45
No trace of a ferocious air;
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish boy is blest,
And happy in his flowery cove: 50
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien;
Like a dead boy he is serene. 55
William Wordsworth.