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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. |