I wondered what to set to verse, I pondered hard and long: No muse came from the Pierian Spring To grace my voice with song- Only the sound of water lapping, and the warbler’s song. I met no queen with swarthy cheeks Brow- bound with burning gold, Or aged shepherd sorrowing Beside his rough-hewn fold- All that I saw across the water were the hills unrolled. I saw no stately pleasure dome, No Abyssinian maid, No host of golden daffodils Beneath the trees arrayed- Only the slender reeds-a -quiver, and the wooded glade. No warrior bold in armour clad To Father Tibur leapt: No maid from out her moated grange Her weary vigil kept- Nor did I see: alone I waited where the willow wept.