Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/71

11 BY THE SAME.

, sweet Little-ones, is passed

Since your dear Mother went away,—

And she to-morrow will return;

To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!

The eldest heard with steady glee;

Silent he stood; then laughed amain,—

And shouted, "Mother come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout

With witless hope to bring her near;

"Nay, patience! patience, little Boy!

Your tender Mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,

And long, long vales to travel through;—

He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,

But he submits; what can he do?