Classic Poem

Each afternoon, from two to four,
I take a walk by Rydal's shore—
So fair it seems to me,
And often, if the sun has dried
The path, I turn my steps aside
To talk with Dorothy.

Her father and her mother dwell
A mile away in yonder dell,
And all the neighbours own
That 'tis not possible to see
A fairer child than Dorothy.
(Her other name is Brown.)

Her eyes are blue, her years are nine,
And when she puts her hand in mine
And charms me with her talk,
Full oft the prattle of this child
The poet's sadness hath beguiled
Upon his evening walk.