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105
105
i.
How
sweet
it is,
The wayward
An
when mother Fancy
rocks
brain, to saunter through a
old place, full of
many
wood
a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocksj
And Wild
rose tip-toe
Like to a bonny Lass,
upon hawthorn
who
stocks,
plays her pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks^
When
she stands cresting the Clown's head, and
The crowd beneath Such place
to
me
is
her.
Verily
I
mock*
think,
sometimes like a dream
Or map of the whole world
thoughts, link
by
link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all
And
things, that at last in fear I shrink,
leap at once from the delicious stream.
F5
