Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge--the Mere[999] Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear, And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye, Deeper than ocean, in the immensity Of its vague mountains and unreal sky! 5 But, from the process in that still retreat, Turn to minuter changes at our feet; Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn, And has restored to view its tender green, 10 That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath their dazzling sheen. --An emblem this of what the sober Hour Can do for minds disposed to feel its power! Thus oft, when we in vain have wish'd away The petty pleasures of the garish day, 15 Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host (Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post) And leaves the disencumbered spirit free To reassume a staid simplicity. 'Tis well--but what are helps of time and place, 20 When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace; Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend, Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to befriend; If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, "I come to open out, for fresh display, 25 The elastic vanities of yesterday?" FOOTNOTES: [999] The "mere" was probably Rydal, and the "ridge" that of Silver How.--ED. "THE LEAVES THAT RUSTLED ON THIS OAK-CROWNED HILL" Composed 1834.--Published 1835 [Composed by the side of Grasmere lake. The mountains that enclose the vale, especially towards Easdale, are most favorable to the reverberation of sound. There is a passage in _The Excursion_ towards the close of the fourth book, where the voice of the raven in flight is traced through the modifications it undergoes, as I have often heard it in that vale and others of this district.[1000] "Often, at the hour When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, Within the circuit of this fabric huge, One voice--the solitary raven."--I. F.] One of the "Evening Voluntaries."--ED. The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, And sky that danced among those leaves, are still; Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower Soft shades and dews have shed their blended power On drooping eyelid and the closing flower; 5 Sound is there none at which the faintest heart Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start; Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream Pierces the ethereal vault; and ('mid the gleam Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream, 10 From the hushed vale's realities, transferred To the still lake) the imaginative Bird Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not unheard.