Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/259

199 She kisses o'er and o'er again

Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;

She's happy here, she's happy there,

She is uneasy every where;

Her limbs are all alive with joy.

She pats the Pony, where or when

She knows not, happy Betty Foy!

The little Pony glad may be,

But he is milder far than she,

You hardly can perceive his joy.

"Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;

You've done your best, and that is all."

She took the reins, when this was said,

And gently turned the Pony's head

From the loud waterfall.

By this the stars were almost gone,

The moon was setting on the hill,

So pale you scarcely looked at her:

The little birds began to stir,

Though yet their tongues were still.