THE REVERIE OF
POOR SUSAN
AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard.
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her?
She sees a mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
and the colours have all passed away from her eyes!
--William Wordsworth
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