Dedicatory Sonnet, To S. T. Coleridge
Father, and Bard revered! to whom I owe,
Whate’er it be, my little art of numbers,
Thou, in thy night-watch o’ver my cradled slumbers,
Didst meditate the verse that lives to show,
(And long shall live, when we alike are low)
Thy prayer how ardent, and thy hope how strong,
That I should learn of Nature’s self the song,
The lore which none but Nature’s pupils know.
The prayer was heard: I “wandered like a breeze,”
By mountain brooks and solitary meres,
And gathered there the shapes and fantasies
Which, mixed with passions of my sadder years,
Compose this book. If good therein there be,
That good, my sire, I dedicate to thee.
Father, and Bard revered! to whom I owe,
Whate’er it be, my little art of numbers,
Thou, in thy night-watch o’ver my cradled slumbers,
Didst meditate the verse that lives to show,
(And long shall live, when we alike are low)
Thy prayer how ardent, and thy hope how strong,
That I should learn of Nature’s self the song,
The lore which none but Nature’s pupils know.
The prayer was heard: I “wandered like a breeze,”
By mountain brooks and solitary meres,
And gathered there the shapes and fantasies
Which, mixed with passions of my sadder years,
Compose this book. If good therein there be,
That good, my sire, I dedicate to thee.