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Twice-boiled weather, the water from the well,
hand-dug, shallow, lined with stone
picked for a thickness from the oxen-plowed fields,
the yard sunken where the rock spring runs
hidden under grasses glittering in fairy rings —
a ride through the neighboring farms in late winter,
red barns and white chuches still
plumb on their timbers and sided with sundown,
becomes sudden joy — the turn of the road,
the tossing hills, the swept sky,
the air cooling in the hollows, and the whole thing
opening to something immense on this earth
where we find our happiness, or not at all,
fresh water cold in the ground of our living.
hand-dug, shallow, lined with stone
picked for a thickness from the oxen-plowed fields,
the yard sunken where the rock spring runs
hidden under grasses glittering in fairy rings —
a ride through the neighboring farms in late winter,
red barns and white chuches still
plumb on their timbers and sided with sundown,
becomes sudden joy — the turn of the road,
the tossing hills, the swept sky,
the air cooling in the hollows, and the whole thing
opening to something immense on this earth
where we find our happiness, or not at all,
fresh water cold in the ground of our living.
—penultimate line from Wordsworth.
