On which it grew, or to be left alone On Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the side So fared we that sweet morning: from the fields Attir'd in peasant's garb, who stood alone Angling beside the margin of the lake. That way we turn'd our steps; nor was it long, Which then we saw, with one and the same voice To greet us and we saw a man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks Too weak to labour in the harvest field, A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake To serious musing and to self-reproach. Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, Or Foreland on a new-discover'd coast, And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears. V. To M. H. Our walk was far among the ancient trees: There was no road, nor any wood-man's path, A track which brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods. All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well Or some stone-bason which the Herdsman's hand Had shap'd for their refreshment, nor did sun Or wind from any quarter ever come |