ABSTRACT
A boy came from the mountains, tripping light With basket on his arm – and it appear’d That there was butter there, for the white cloth That over it was spread, not unobserved, In tiny ridges gently rose and fell Like graves of children cover’d o’er with snow; And by one clumsy fold the traveller spied One roll of yellow treasure, all as pure As primrose bud reflected in the lake. ‘Boy,’ said the stranger, ‘wilt thou hold my steed Till I walk round the corner of that mere? When I return I will repay thee well.’ The boy consented – touch’d his slouching hat Of broad unequal brim with ready hand, And set his basket down upon the sward.
