Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/147

139 XX.

not One who much or oft delight

To season my fireside with personal talk,—

Of Friends, who live within an easy walk,

Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:

And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,

Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,

These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk

Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.

Better than such discourse doth silence long,

Long, barren silence, square with my desire;

To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,

In the lov'd presence of my cottage-fire,

And listen to the flapping of the flame,

Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.