LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock—chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity;
Even so this happy Creature of herself
Is all—sufficient, solitude to her
Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn’s
Forth—startled from the fern where she lay couched;
Unthought—of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow—flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many—coloured images imprest
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.