Recollect that trifles make perfection, and that perfection is no trifle.
The Pet Lamb
By William Wordsworth
1. The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
2. Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
3. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook:
"Drink, pretty creature, drink!" she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.
4. 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.
5. Right towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face;
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing: