Page:Peter Bell (Wordsworth).djvu/22

6 Never did fifty things at once

Appear so lovely, never, never,—

How tunefully the forests ring!

To hear the earth's soft murmuring

Thus could I hang for ever!

Shame on you," cried my little Boat,

Was ever such a heartless loon,

Within a living Boat to sit,

And make no better use of it,

A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon!

Out—out—and, like a brooding hen,

Beside your sooty hearth-stone cower;

Go, creep along the dirt, and pick

Your way with your good walking-stick,

Just three good miles an hour!