By Esthwaite's shore is still a field of snow;
Thousands upon ten thousands snowdrops blow
In virgin sweet community as one,-
Type of the peace that dwells with God alone,
Emblems of angel-brotherhood below:
Their beauty every child may know
From Hawkshead vale to grey-built Coniston.
Pure presences! The humblest truth's delight,
Even in springtide's natural innocence,
Must needs be sought, and plucked, and carried home:
And here old men and little children come,
Glad with a common hope, to bear from hence
What else had never made the fell-side cottage bright.