Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/51

25 So was He framed; and such his course of life

Who now, with no Appendage but a Staff,

The prized memorial of relinquish'd toils,

Upon that Cottage bench reposed his limbs,

Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay,

His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut,

The shadows of the breezy elms above

Dappling his face. He had not heard my steps

As I approached; and near him did I stand

Unnotic'd in the shade, some minutes' space.

At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat

Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim

Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose,

And ere the pleasant greeting that ensued

Was ended, "'Tis," said I, "a burning day;

My lips are parched with thirst, but you, I guess,

Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word,

Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb

The fence hard by, where that aspiring shrub

Looked out upon the road. It was a plot

Of garden-ground run wild, it's matted weeds