Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/322

262 And find his way to me

Under the branches of the tree:

In and out, he darts about;

Can this be the Bird, to man so good,

That, after their bewildering,

Did cover with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue

A beautiful Creature,

That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the summer sky

From flower to flower let him fly;

'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The Cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,

He is the Friend of our summer gladness:

What hinders, then, that ye should be

Playmates in the sunny weather,

And fly about in the air together!

His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,

A crimson as bright as thine own:

If thou would'st be happy in thy nest,

O pious Bird! whom Man loves best,

Love him, or leave him alone!