NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell, Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange-- Not these 'alone' inspire the tuneful shell; But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, There also is the Muse not loth to range, Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, Skyward ascending from a woody dell. Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, And sage content, and placid melancholy; She loves to gaze upon a crystal river-- Diaphanous because it travels slowly; Soft is the music that would charm for ever; The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. Back to Wordsworth