Baker's cart

February 19, 2023

I have seen the Baker's horse,

As he had been accustomed at your door,

Stop the loaded wain, when o' er his head,

Smack went the whip, and you were left,as if

You were not born to live, or there had been,

No bread in all the land. Five little ones,

They at the rumbling of the distant wheels,

Had all come forth, and, ere the grove of birch,

Concealed the wain, into their wretched hut,

They all returned. While in the road I stood,

Pursuing with invountary look,

The wain now seen no longer to my side,

Came, a pitcher in her hand,

Filled from the spring; she saw what way my eyes,

Were turned, and in a low and fearful voice,

She said "That waggon does not care for us,"

The words were simple, but her look and voice

Made uop their meanin, and bespoke a mind,

which being long neglected and denied,

The common food of hope was now become

Sick and extravagant-by strong access,

Of momentary pangs driv'n to that state,

In which all past expernce melts away,

And the rebellious heart to its own will

Fashions the laws of nature.

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