Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/267

207 Of antique form, this large for spinning wool,

That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest,

It was because the other was at work.

The Pair had but one Inmate in their house,

An only Child, who had been born to them

When Michael telling o'er his years began

To deem that he was old,—in Shepherd's phrase,

With one foot in the grave. This only Son,

With two brave Sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,

The one of an inestimable worth,

Made all their Household. I may truly say,

That they were as a proverb in the vale

For endless industry. When day was gone,

And from their occupations out of doors

The Son and Father were come home, even then

Their labour did not cease; unless when all

Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there,

Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,

Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal

Was ended, (for so the Son was named)

And his old Father, both betook themselves

To such convenient work as might employ

Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card