With rosy hand a little girl prest down
A boss of fresh-cull’ d cowslips in a rill:
Often as they sprang up again, a frown
Show’ d she disliked resistance to her will:
But when they droopt their heads and shone much less,
She shook them to and fro, and threw them by,
And tript away. ‘ Ye loathe the heaviness
Ye love to cause, my little girls!’ thought I,
‘ And what had shone for you, by you must die.’