At Rydal

ONCE seemed it possible to know
The wisdom shut in printed books;
And once, to paint the fleeting glow
That gilds the woodland brooks :
But each must see a higher height
Who strives to conquer Wisdom’s steep,
And each discern a peerless light
The pencil cannot keep.
The shadowy feet on Rydal Mount
Lead upward from a simple grave,
And ever travel toward one fount,
And follow but one wave :
Follow the sacred stream of Love ;
What worth, Ambition! What hurt, Scorn! —
If fall the loving tears above
One who to Love was born ?