In telling way

& O how quiet sundays past away

When by that little gravel brook we lay

Where milking maidens on its shelving brink

Feared soiling clothes by kneeling down to drink

I sipt from out their hands in telling way

& seemed to make it more sense to stay

O how I long to see that pleasant place

& meet the welcome of each pleasant face

(fragment, from ‘The Wish’)

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