She could for this waste home have piped the wail.

Iambe, her dear mountain-rivulet

To waken laughter from cold stones, beheld

A riven wheatfield cracking for the wet,

And seed like infant's teeth, that never swelled,

Apeep up flinty ridges, milkless round.

Teeth of the giants marked she where thin ground

Against the hand here slack as rotted net.