Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/130

122 Few months of life has he in store,

As he to you will tell,

For still, the more he works, the more

Do his weak ancles swell.

My gentle Reader, I perceive

How patiently you've waited,

And I'm afraid that you expect

Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind

Such stores as silent thought can bring,

O gentle Reader! you would find

A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short,

I hope you'll kindly take it:

It is no tale; but, should you think,

Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see

This Old Man doing all he could

To unearth the root of an old tree,

A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock tottered in his hand;

So vain was his endeavour

That at the root of the old tree

He might have worked for ever.