Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/162

154 Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man,

His age has no companion. On the ground

His eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along,

They move along the ground; and evermore,

Instead of common and habitual sight

Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,

And the blue sky, one little span of earth

Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,

Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground,

He plies his weary journey, seeing still,

And never knowing that he sees, some straw,

Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track,

The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left

Impress'd on the white road, in the same line,

At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!

His staff trails with him, scarcely do his feet

Disturb the summer dust, he is so still