In her upward eye of fire! 
  With a tiger-leap half-way 25
  Now she meets the coming prey,
  Lets it go as fast, and then
  Has it in her power again: 
  Now she works with three or four,
  Like an Indian conjurer; 30
  Quick as he in feats of art,
  Far beyond in joy of heart. 
  Were her antics played in the eye
  Of a thousand standers-by,
  Clapping hands with shout and stare, 35
  What would little Tabby care
  For the plaudits of the crowd? 
  Over happy to be proud,
  Over wealthy in the treasure
  Of her own exceeding pleasure! 40

    ’Tis a pretty baby-treat;
  Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; [4]
  Here, for neither Babe nor [5] me,
  Other play-mate can I see. 
  Of the countless living things, 45
  That with stir of feet and wings
  (In the sun or under shade,
  Upon bough or grassy blade)
  And with busy revellings,
  Chirp and song, and murmurings, 50
  Made this orchard’s narrow space,
  And this vale so blithe a place;
  Multitudes are swept away
  Never more to breathe the day: 
  Some are sleeping; some in bands 55
  Travelled into distant lands;
  Others slunk to moor and wood,
  Far from human neighbourhood;
  And, among the Kinds that keep
  With us closer fellowship, 60
  With us openly abide,
  All have laid their mirth aside.

    Where is he that giddy [6] Sprite,
  Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
  Who was blest as bird could be, 65
  Feeding in the apple-tree;
  Made such wanton spoil and rout,
  Turning blossoms inside out;
  Hung—­head pointing towards the ground—­[7]
  Fluttered, perched, into a round 70
  Bound himself, and then unbound;
  Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin! 
  Prettiest tumbler ever seen! 
  Light of heart and light of limb;
  What is now become of Him? 75
  Lambs, that through the mountains went
  Frisking, bleating merriment,
  When the year was in its prime,
  They are sobered by this time. 
  If you look to vale or [8] hill, 80
  If you listen, all is still,
  Save a little neighbouring rill,
  That from out the rocky ground
  Strikes a solitary sound. 
  Vainly glitter [9] hill and plain, 85
  And the air is calm in vain;
  Vainly Morning spreads the lure
  Of a sky serene and pure;
  Creature none can she decoy
  Into open sign of joy:  90
  Is it that they have a fear
  Of the dreary season near? 
  Or that other pleasures be
  Sweeter even than gaiety?