Page:The Recluse, Wordsworth, 1888.djvu/41

Rh No, we are not alone, we do not stand,

My sister here misplaced and desolate,

Loving what no one cares for but ourselves.

We shall not scatter through the plains and rocks

Of this fair Vale, and o'er its spacious heights,

Unprofitable kindliness, bestowed

On objects unaccustomed to the gifts

Of feeling, which were cheerless and forlorn

But few weeks past and would be so again

Were we not here; we do not tend a lamp

Whose lustre we alone participate,

Which shines dependent upon us alone,

Mortal though bright, a dying, dying flame.

Look where we will, some human hand has been

Before us with its offering; not a tree

Sprinkles these little pastures, but the same