5
In silence and obscurity.
--Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

It is highly probable that the friend was S. T. Coleridge. See the _Life
of Wordsworth_ (1889), vol. ii. pp. 166, 167.--ED.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1836.

... this ... 1807.

STRAY PLEASURES

Composed 1806.--Published 1807

[Suggested on the Thames by the sight of one of those floating mills
that used to be seen there. This I noticed on the Surrey side between
Somerset House and Blackfriars' Bridge. Charles Lamb was with me at the
time; and I thought it remarkable that I should have to point out to
_him_, an idolatrous Londoner, a sight so interesting as the happy group
dancing on the platform. Mills of this kind used to be, and perhaps
still are, not uncommon on the continent. I noticed several upon the
river Saone in the year 1799, particularly near the town of Chalons,
where my friend Jones and I halted a day when we crossed France; so far
on foot; there we embarked, and floated down to Lyons.--I. F.]

"----_Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find._"

One of the "Poems of the Fancy." The title _Stray Pleasures_ was first
given in the edition of 1820. In 1807 and 1815 the poem had no title;
but in the original MS. it was called "Dancers."--ED.

By their floating mill,
That[1] lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames!
The platform is small, but gives room[2] for them all; 5
And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,
To their house and their mill tethered fast:
To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, 10
They from morning to even take whatever is given;--
And many a blithe day they have past.[3]

In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest, 15
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance,--there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel, 20
And their music's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,--what matter? 'tis theirs;