Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/154

94 But, for that moping Son of Idleness,

Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard

Is neither epitaph nor monument,

Tomb-stone nor name—only the turf we tread,

And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife,

Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.

It was a July evening; and he sate

Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves

Of his old cottage,—as it chanced, that day,

Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone

His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,

While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,

He fed the spindle of his youngest Child,

Who turned her large round wheel in the open air

With back and forward steps. Towards the field

In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,

Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,

While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent

Many a long look of wonder; and at last,

Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge

Of carded wool which the old man had piled

He laid his implements with gentle care,

Each in the other locked; and, down the path

Which from his cottage to the church-yard led,