I.

NOR judge me light, tho’ light at times I seem,

And lightly in the stress of fortune bear

The innumerable flaws of changeful care —

Nor judge me light for this, nor rashly deem

(Office forbid to mortals, kept supreme¹

And separate the prerogative² of God!)

That seaman³ idle who is borne abroad

To the far haven⁴ by the favouring stream.

Not he alone that to contrarious seas

Opposes, all night long, the unwearied oar⁵,

Not he alone, by high success endeared,

Shall reach the Port; but, winged, with some light breeze

Shall they, with upright keels, pass in before

Whom easy Taste, the golden pilot, steered⁶.
II.

So shall this book wax like unto a well,

Fairy with mirrored flowers about the brim,

Or like some tarn⁷ that wailing⁸ curlews skim,

Glassing the sallow uplands or brown fell;

And so, as men go down into a dell

(Weary with noon) to find relief and shade,

When on the uneasy sick-bed we are laid,

We shall go down into thy book, and tell

The leaves, once blank, to build again for us

Old summer dead and ruined, and the time

Of later autumn with the corn in stook.

So shalt thou stint⁹ the meagre winter thus

Of his projected triumph, and the rime¹⁰

Shall melt before the sunshine in thy book.

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