Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/70

62 Even such as his may be my lot.

What cause have I to haunt

My heart with terrors? Am I not

In truth a favor'd plant!

The Spring for me a garland weaves

Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,

And, when the Frost is in the sky,

My branches are so fresh and gay

That You might look on me and say

This plant can never die.

The butterfly, all green and gold,

To me hath often flown,

Here in my Blossoms to behold

Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew,

Beneath my shade the mother ewe

Lies with her infant lamb; I see

The love, they to each other make,

And the sweet joy, which they partake,

It is a joy to me."