Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/343

283 'Tis a pretty Baby-treat;

Nor, I deem, for me unmeet:

Here, for neither Babe nor me,

Other Play-mate can I see.

Of the countless living things,

That with stir of feet and wings,

(In the sun or under shade

Upon bough or grassy blade)

And with busy revellings,

Chirp and song, and murmurings,

Made this Orchard's narrow space,

And this Vale so blithe a place;

Multitudes are swept away

Never more to breathe the day:

Some are sleeping; some in Bands

Travelled into distant Lands;

Others slunk to moor and wood,

Far from human neighbourhood;

And, among the Kinds that keep

With us closer fellowship,

With us openly abide,

All have laid their mirth aside.

—Where is he that giddy Sprite,

Blue-cap, with his colours bright,