TO S. H.

By William Wordsworth

Excuse is needless when with love sincere

Of occupation, not by fashion led,

Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread;

My nerves from no such murmur shrink,— tho’ near,

Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear,

When twilight shades darkenthe mountain's head.

Even She who toils to spinour vital thread

Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear

To household virtues. Venerable Art,

Torn from the Poor!yet shall kind Heaven protect

Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect,

Trusting to crowded factory and mart

Andproud discoveries of the intellect,

Heed notthe pillage of man's ancient heart.