Now Derwentwater come!—a looking‐glass a
Wherein reflected are the mountainʼs heights,
As in a mirror, framed in rocks and woods;
So upon thee there is a seeming mount,
A seeming tree, a seeming rivulet.
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All upon thee are painted by a hand
Which not a critic can well criticise.
But to disturb thee oft, bluff Eolus
Descends upon the mountains, with his breath.
Thy polished surface is a boy at play
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Who labours at the snow to make a man,
And when heʼs made it, knocks it down again;— b
As when thouʼst made a picture thou dost play
At tearing it to pieces. Trees do first
Tremble, as if a monstrous heart of oak
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Were but an aspen leaf; and then as if
It were a cobweb in the tempestʼs blow.
Thus like Penelope thou weavʼst a web
And then thou dost undo it. Thouʼrt like her
Because thouʼrt fair, and oft deceiving too.
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First seeming to be calm, then turning rough,
And thus deceiving as Penelope c
Sweet Derwent, on thy winding shore,
Beside thy mountain‐forests hoar,
There would I like to wander still,
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And drink from out the rippling rill,
Which from thy mountain‐head doth fall d
And mingles with the eaglesʼ call;
While on Helvellyn thunder roars,
Re‐echoed from old e Derwentʼs shores;
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And while f the lightning flashes still,
Reflected in the mountain‐rill.