Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/301

293 His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled

With plenteous store of heath and withered fern,

(A lading which he with his sickle cuts

Among the mountains,) and beneath this roof

He makes his summer couch, and here at noon

Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep

Panting beneath the burthen of their wool

Lie round him, even as if they were a part

Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed

He through that door-place looks toward the lake

And to the stirring breezes, does he want

Creations lovely as the work of sleep,

Fair sights—and visions of romantic joy!