Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/244

192 VII.

This Hermit good lives in that wood

Which slopes down to the Sea.

How loudly his sweet voice he rears!

He loves to talk with Mariners

That come from a far countreé.

He kneels at morn and noon and eve—

He hath a cushion plump:

It is the moss, that wholly hides

The rotted old Oak-stump.