Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/201

193 Angling beside the margin of the lake.

That way we turn'd our steps; nor was it long,

Ere making ready comments on the sight

Which then we saw, with one and the same voice

We all cried out, that he must be indeed

An idle man, who thus could lose a day

Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire

Is ample, and some little might be stor'd

Wherewith to chear him in the winter time.

Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'd

Close to the spot where with his rod and line

He stood alone; whereat he turn'd his head

To greet us—and we saw a man worn down

By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks

And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean

That for my single self I look'd at them,

Forgetful of the body they sustain'd.—

Too weak to labour in the harvest field,

The man was using his best skill to gain