Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/200

140 I'll follow you across the snow;

Ye travel heavily and slow;

In spite of all my weary pain,

I'll look upon your tents again.

—My fire is dead, and snowy white

The water which beside it stood;

The wolf has come to me to-night,

And he has stolen away my food.

For ever left alone am I,

Then wherefore should I fear to die?