Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/134

126 A basket on her head she bare,

Her brow was smooth and white,

To see a Child so very fair,

It was a pure delight!

No fountain from its rocky cave

E'er tripp'd with foot so free,

She seem'd as happy as a wave

That dances on the sea.

There came from me a sigh of pain

Which I could ill confine;

I look'd at her and look'd again;

—And did not wish her mine.

Matthew is in his grave, yet now

Methinks I see him stand,

As at that moment, with his bough

Of wilding in his hand.