“I made a little rondel to my lady; and it must be as my thought flew up, so clomb my feet likewise, and I was not aware.”
He plaited his fingers in his belt and flushed a deeper red, half proud and half dismayed of his confession. “I trust thee for a secret man, shepherd,” he added.
The eyes of the dreamer laughed, but his lips were circumspect. He sat up and nursed his knee with his two long arms.
“Ay, of a truth, a secret man, young master; but no shepherd,” he answered.
The little lad eyed him, and questioned with a child's simplicity, “What art thou, then?”
The youth looked onward to the Great Hill. “I know not, yet,” he said.
So for a little space he sat, forgetful of his questioner, until the child came close and sat beside him, laying one hand upon his arm and looking up to his face thoughtfully.
“Thou long brown man, it may be thou 'rt a poet,” he said at last.
“It may well be,” the dreamer acquiesced, and never turned his eyes from the green hill.
“In London, at the court of the king, there be poets,” the child continued; “but thou art of quite other fashion. Who is thy lady-love?”