THIS Wordsworth poem from 1798 does not just revel in nature but seems to echo Burns’s earlier observation that, “Man’s inhumanity to Man makes countless thousands mourn.”

Not surprising, perhaps, since Wordsworth had a deep admiration for his older contemporary.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

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I heard a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

~

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.  

~

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes.

~

The birds around us hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: -
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

~

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

~

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?