'And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky that April morn, Of this the very brother. 'With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And to the church-yard come, stopp'd short Beside my daughter's grave. 'Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang,--she would have been A very nightingale. 'Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more-- For so it seem'd,--than till that day I e'er had loved before. 'And turning from her grave, I met, Beside the churchyard yew, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. 'A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight! 'No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripp'd with foot so free; She seem'd as happy as a wave That dances on the sea. 'There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I look'd at her, and look'd again: And did not wish her mine!' --Matthew is in his grave, yet now Methinks I see him stand As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand. _W. Wordsworth_ CCCXXXI _THE FOUNTAIN_ _A Conversation_ We talk'd with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke And gurgled at our feet. 'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border-song, or catch That suits a summer's noon; 'Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!' In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray-hair'd man of glee: 'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears, How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years And flow as now it flows. 'And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. 'My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirr'd, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. 'Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away, Than what it leaves behind. 'The blackbird amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. 'With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free: