Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/181

129 Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!

He with his pony now doth roam

The cliffs and peaks so high that are,

To lay his hands upon a star,

And in his pocket bring it home.

Perhaps he's turned himself about,

His face unto his horse's tail,

And still and mute, in wonder lost,

All like a silent horse-man ghost,

He travels on along the vale.

And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep,

A fierce and dreadful hunter he!

Yon valley, that's so trim and green,

In five months' time, should he be seen,

A desartdesert [sic] wilderness will be.