Page:Poems and extracts - Wordsworth.djvu/62



Sometime I do admire All men burn not with desire: Nay I muse her servants are not Pleading love; but O! they dare not. And I therefore wonder, why They do not grow sick and die. Sure they would do so, but that, By the ordinance of fate, There is some concealed thing So each gazer limiting He can see no more of merit, Than beseems his worth and spirit.

Rh