Page:Enoch Arden, etc - Tennyson - 1864.djvu/135

x.

And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.

xi.

All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm,

Willy,—he didn't see me,—and Jenny hung on his arm.
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how;
Ah, there's no fool like the old one—it makes me angry now.