Within the circuit of this plodding life 
There enter moments of an azure hue, 
Untarnished fair as is the violet 
Or anemone, when the spring stew them 
By some meandering rivulet, which make 
The best philosophy untrue that aims 
But to console man for his grievences. 
I have remembered when the winter came, 
High in my chamber in the frosty nights, 
When in the still light of the cheerful moon, 
On the every twig and rail and jutting spout, 
The icy spears were adding to their length 
Against the arrows of the coming sun, 
How in the shimmering noon of winter past 
Some unrecorded beam slanted across 
The upland pastures where the Johnwort grew; 
Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind, 
The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag 
Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill, 
Which now through all its course stands still and dumb 
Its own memorial, - purling at its play 
Along the slopes, and through the meadows next, 
Until its youthful sound was hushed at last 
In the staid current of the lowland stream; 
Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned, 
And where the fieldfare followed in the rear, 
When all the fields around lay bound and hoar 
Beneath a thick integument of snow. 
So by God's cheap economy made rich 
To go upon my winter's task again.