"Ere my departure, to her care I gave, For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 805 Which with a look of welcome she received; And I exhorted her to place her trust[88] In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. I took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe, The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 810 With the best hope and comfort I could give: She thanked me for my wish;--but for my hope It seemed[89] she did not thank me. "I returned, And took my rounds along this road again When[90] on its sunny bank the primrose flower 815 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. I found her sad and drooping: she had learned No tidings of her husband; if he lived,[91] She knew not that he lived; if he were dead, 819 She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same In person and appearance; but her house Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;[BG] The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 825 Had been piled up against the corner panes In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 830 And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew, And once again entering the garden saw,[92] More plainly still, that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass: 835 No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers, It seemed the better part were gnawed away Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, Which had been twined about the slender stem 840 Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. --Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, And, noting that my eye was on the tree, She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone 845 Ere Robert come again.' When to the House We had returned together, she enquired[93] If I had any hope:--but for her babe And for her little orphan boy, she said, She had no wish to live, that she must die 850 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom Still in its place; his sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail; his very staff Stood undisturbed behind the door. "And when, In bleak December, I retraced this way, 855 She told me that her little babe was dead, And she was left alone. She now, released From her maternal cares, had taken up The employment common through these wilds, and gained,