Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/193

133 She loves her fire, her Cottage-home;

Yet o'er the moorland will she roam

In weather rough and bleak;

And, when against the wind she strains,

Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains

That sparkle on her cheek.

Take all that's mine "beneath the moon,"

If I with her but half a noon

May sit beneath the walls

Of some old cave, or mossy nook,

When up she winds along the brook,

To hunt the waterfalls.