Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/180

172 But in this lonesome nook the bird

Did never build his nest.

No beast, no bird hath here his home;

The bees borne on the breezy air

Pass high above those fragrant bells

To other flowers, to other dells,

Nor ever linger there.

The Danish Boy walks here alone:

The lovely dell is all his own.

A spirit of noon day is he,

He seems a Form of flesh and blood;

A piping Shepherd he might be,

A Herd-boy of the wood.

A regal vest of fur he wears,

In colour like a raven's wing;

It fears nor rain, nor wind, nor dew,

But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue

As budding pines in Spring;