HOW sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks <br />The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! <br />An old place, full of many a lovely brood, <br />Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks; <br />And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, <br />Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks <br />At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,-- <br />When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks <br />The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, <br />Such place to me is sometimes like a dream <br />Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, <br />Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam <br />Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, <br />And leap at once from the delicious stream.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/how-sweet-it-is-when-mother-fancy-rocks/
