Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/233

173 —I cannot help it—ill intent

I've none, my pretty Innocent!

I weep—I know they do thee wrong,

These tears—and my poor idle tongue.

Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek

How cold it is! but thou art good;

Thine eyes are on me—they would speak,

I think, to help me if they could.

Blessings upon that quiet face,

My heart again is in its place!

While thou art mine, my little Love,

This cannot be a sorrowful grove;

Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee,

I seem to find them all in thee:

Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;

I'll call thee by my Darling's name;

Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,

Thy features seem to me the same;

His little Sister thou shalt be:

And, when once more my home I see,

I'll tell him many tales of Thee."