Here you will find the Long Poem A Morning Exercise of poet William Wordsworth
FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad, Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw; Sending sad shadows after things not sad, Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe: Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry Becomes an echo of man's misery. Blithe ravens croak of death; and when the owl Tries his two voices for a favourite strain-- 'Tu-whit--Tu-whoo!' the unsuspecting fowl Forebodes mishap or seems but to complain; Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. Through border wilds where naked Indians stray, Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill; A feathered task-master cries, 'WORK AWAY!' And, in thy iteration, 'WHIP POOR WILL!' Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave, Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave. What wonder? at her bidding, ancient lays Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel; And that fleet messenger of summer days, The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell; But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant Lark To melancholy service--hark! O hark! The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn, Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed; But 'He' is risen, a later star of dawn, Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud; Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark; The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark! Hail, blest above all kinds!--Supremely skilled Restless with fixed to balance, high with low, Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to build On such forbearance as the deep may show; Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties, Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise. Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove; Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee; So constant with thy downward eye of love, Yet, in aerial singleness, so free; So humble, yet so ready to rejoice In power of wing and never-wearied voice. To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain, ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. How would it please old Ocean to partake, With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, The harmony thy notes most gladly make Where earth resembles most his own domain! Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear These matins mounting towards her native sphere. Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute; For not an eyelid could to sleep incline Wert thou among them, singing as they shine!