Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/72

12 No strife disturbs his Sister's breast;

She wars not with the mystery

Of time and distance, night and day,

The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy

Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;

She dances, runs without an aim,

She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her Brother now takes up the note,

And echoes back his Sister's glee;

They hug the Infant in my arms,

As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,

We rested in the garden bower;

While sweetly shone the evening sun

In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,—

Our rambles by the swift brook's side

Far as the willow-skirted pool

Where two fair swans together glide.