Introduction
In vain through every changeful year
Did nature lead him as before;
A primrose by a river’s brim,
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.
At noon, when by the forest’s edge
He lay beneath the branches high,
The soft blue sky did never melt
Into his heart; he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky.
Wordsworth.
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.
Bryant.