His son had drunk, the old man said to him
That now he might be proud, for he that day
Had slaked his thirst out of a famous well,
The highest fountain known on British land.
Thence, journeying on a second time, they passed
Those small flat stones, which, ranged by traveller’s hands
In cyphers on Helvellyn’s highest ridge,
Lie loose on the bare turf, some half-o’ergrown
By the grey moss, but not a single stone
Unsettled by a wanton blow from foot