Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/87

79 The man who makes this feverish complaint

Is one of giant stature, who could dance

Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail.

Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine

To store up kindred hours for me, thy face

Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk

Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know

Such happiness as I have known to-day.