Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/89

81 She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade,

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,

And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.

Poor Outcast! return—to receive thee once more

The house of thy Father will open its door,

And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,

Mayst hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own.