Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone, and often-times When others heeded not, He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills; The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say The winds are now devising work for me! And truly at all times the storm, that drives The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists That came to him and left him on the heights. So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd The common air; the hills, which he so oft Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which like a book preserv'd the memory Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd, Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills Which were his living Being, even more Than his own Blood--what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself. He had not passed his days in singleness. He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, That small for flax, and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. The Pair had but one Inmate in their house, An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael telling o'er his years began To deem that he was old, in Shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only son, With two brave sheep dogs tried in many a storm. The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their Household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out of doors The Son and Father were come home, even then, Their labour did not cease, unless when all Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk, Sate round their basket pil'd with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd) And his old Father, both betook themselves To such convenient work, as might employ Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card Wool for the House-wife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field.