Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/237

177 Thy Father cares not for my breast,

'Tis thine, sweet Baby, there to rest:

'Tis all thine own!—and, if its hue

Be changed, that was so fair to view,

'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!

My beauty, little Child, is flown;

But thou wilt live with me in love,

And what if my poor cheek be brown?

'Tis well for me, thou canst not see

How pale and wan it else would be.

Dread not their taunts, my little life!

I am thy Father's wedded Wife;

And underneath the spreading tree

We two will live in honesty.

If his sweet Boy he could forsake,

With me he never would have stayed:

From him no harm my Babe can take,

But he, poor Man! is wretched made;

And every day we two will pray

For him that's gone and far away.