And now you wear, from crown to shoe, My own will's gift, to deck my own; For your true share a half is small. Come, hood your head; wrap up, now do. Walk close to me: I'll shelter you. And now, when we go out to spend Will sunder us, for night or light; But all my woe 's for you to feel, And all my weal 's for you to know. Come hood your head. You can't see out? I'll lead you right, you need not doubt. THE KNOLL (The speaker, who lives by the knoll, talks to an old friend) O HOME, people tell us, is home be it never so homely, And Meldon 's the home where my fathers all sleep by the knoll. And there they have left me a living, in land, where, in summer, My hay, wither'd grey, awaits hauling in heap, by the knoll. And there, among bright-shining grass-blades, and bent-grass, in autumn, My cows may all lie near the waters that creep by the knoll, And up on the slope of the hillocks, by white-rinded ash-trees, Are ledges of grass and of thyme-beds, with sheep, by the knoll. And down on the west of my house is a rookery, rocking In trees that will ward off the winds that may sweep by the knoll. And there I have windows outlooking to blushing-skied sunset, And others that face the fresh morning's first peep, by the knoll. And though there is no place but heaven without any sorrow, And I, like my fellows in trial, may weep by the knoll, Still, while I fulfil, like a hireling, the day of my labour, I wish, if my wish is not sinful, to keep by the knoll. So, if you can find a day empty of work, with fine weather, And feel yourself willing to climb up the steep by the knoll, Come up, and we'll make ourselves merry once more, all together; You'll find that your bed and your board shall be cheap by the knoll. A WISH FULFILLED My longing wishes, wand'ring wild Beyond the good I had, Would hang on other gifts, that pride And in my dream, I still would hope For this green slope, where now the stream Or gives, or takes, with rambling flight, My jutting land, on left or right, By dipping downs, at dawn of day, Or dewy dells, when daylight dies. And I have lofty trees to sway, Where western wind may roar Against their bowing heads, to play The softer round my door, |