Shelley, a life story

At Quincy's moat the squandering village ends, And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends Of all the village, two old dames that cling As close as any trueloves in the spring.

And nigh this toppling reed, still as the dead The great pike lies, the murderous patriarch, Watching the waterpit shelving and dark Where through the plash his lithe bright vassals thread.... He on the sandbank lies, Sunning himself long hours With stony gorgon eyes: Westward the hot sun lowers.

Here they went with smock and crook,    Toiled in the sun, lolled in the shade, Here they mudded out the brook    And here their hatchet cleared the glade: Harvest-supper woke their wit, Huntsmen’s moon their wooings lit.