Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/119

111 Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature,—perhaps

A child of the field, or the grove;

And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat

Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,

And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains

Which this comfortless oven environ!

He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,

Now back to the tiles, and now back to the wall,

And now on the brink of the iron.

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed;

The best of his skill he has tried;

His feelers methinks I can see him put forth

To the East and the West, and the South and the North;

But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide.

See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh;

His eye-sight and hearing are lost;

Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;

And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze

Are glued to his sides by the frost.