No More Learning

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?

"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may, 30
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away. "


* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical
Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes,

"The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow,
arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably
attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy. "

Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it--a much more probable
supposition--his friend, S. T. Coleridge? --Ed. ]





* * * * *





THE TABLES TURNED

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT


Composed 1798. --Published 1798


Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble? [1]

The sun, above the mountain's head, 5
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is [2] no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things, 15
Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can. [A]

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those [3] barren leaves; 30
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double. 1798. ]


[Variant 2:

1815.

And he is . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 3:

1837.

. . . these . . . 1798. ]


* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: A mediaeval anticipation of this may be quoted in a
footnote.

"Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will
find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach
you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters. "

I quote this, as sent to me by a friend; but the only passage at all
approaching to it which I can verify is the following:

"Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit,
maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur
accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi
quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet. "

See the appendix to Mabillon's edition of 'Bernardi Opera', ii. 1072,
'S. Bernardi Vita, et Res Gesta, auctore Guilielmo'. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey
with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins,
and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place
will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend
to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes
alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in
with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the
females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that
very interesting work, Hearne's 'Journey from Hudson's Bay to the
Northern Ocean'. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs
us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling
noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the
following poem. --W. W. 1798.

[At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep
interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads. "--I. F. ]

Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


I Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!
In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars, they were among my dreams; [1]
In rustling conflict through the skies, [2] 5
I heard, I saw the flashes drive, [3]
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive;
Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away! 10


II My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain:
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live, 15
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie!
Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20


III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!
Too soon I yielded to despair;
Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5]
When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25
And oh, how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer,
My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30


IV My Child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my Babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran, 35
A most strange working [8] did I see;
--As if he strove to be a man,
That he might pull the sledge for me:
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40


V My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
O wind, that o'er my head art flying 45
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send;
Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away;
For I had many things to say. 50

VI I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye [11] travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain
I'll look upon your tents again.
--My fire is dead, and snowy white 55
The water which beside it stood:
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I;
Then wherefore should I fear to die? 60

VII [12] Young as I am, my course is run, [13]
I shall not see another sun;
I cannot lift my limbs to know
If they have any life or no.
My poor forsaken Child, if I 65
For once could have thee close to me,
With happy heart I then would die,
And my last thought would happy be; [14]
But thou, dear Babe, art far away,
Nor shall I see another day. [15] 70


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT


[Variant 1:

1798.

The stars were mingled with my dreams; 1815.

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1798. ]


[Variant 2:

1820.

In sleep did I behold the skies, 1798. ]


[Variant 3:

1827.

I saw the crackling flashes drive; 1798.

I heard, and saw the flashes drive; 1820. ]


[Variant 4:

1815.

. . . you . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 5:

1815.

Too soon despair o'er me prevailed;
Too soon my heartless spirit failed; 1798. ]


[Variant 6:

1815.

. . . you . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 7:

1845.

My friends, when you . . . 1798.

. . . when ye . . . 1815. ]


[Variant 8:

1815.

A most strange something . . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 9:

1815.

. . . a little child. 1798. ]


[Variant 10:

1815.

. . . you . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 11:

1815.

You . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 12: This stanza was omitted in the editions 1815 to 1832, but
restored in 1836. --Ed. ]


[Variant 13:

1836.

My journey will be shortly run, 1798. ]


[Variant 14:

1836.

. . . I then would die,
And my last thoughts . . . 1798.

. . . I then should die, 1800. ]


[Variant 15:

1836.

I feel my body die away,
I shall not see another day. 1798. ]





* * * * *





THE LAST OF THE FLOCK


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


[Produced at the same time as 'The Complaint', and for the same
purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by
Alfoxden. --I. F. ]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


I In distant countries have I been, [1]
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground, 5
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet:
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a Lamb he had. 10


II He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
And with his coat did then essay [2]
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followed him, and said, "My friend, 15
What ails you? wherefore weep you so? "
--"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock:
He is the last of all my flock. 20


III "When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, an ewe [3] I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised, 25
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store. 30


IV "Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine [4] a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock hills they fed; [5] 35
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
--This lusty Lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty. 40


V "Six [6] Children, Sir! had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the Parish asked relief.
They said, I was a wealthy man; 45
My sheep upon the uplands [7] fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.
'Do this: how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due? ' 50


VI "I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me--it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me, 55
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away--
For me it was a woeful day. 60


VII "Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopped--
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.
'Till thirty were not left alive 65
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;
And I may say, that many a time
I wished they all were gone--
Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past. [8] 70


VIII "To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me:
No peace, no comfort could I find, 75
No ease, within doors or without;
And, crazily and wearily
I went my work about;
And oft was moved to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam. [9] 80


IX "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time; 85
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away. 90


X "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;-.
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday 95
I had but only one:
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;--
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock. " 100


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

. . . I have been, 1798. ]


[Variant 2:

1836.

Then with his coat he made essay 1798. ]


[Variant 3:

1832.

. . . a ewe . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 4:

1836.

As sweet . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 5:

1836.

Upon the mountain did they feed; 1798. ]


[Variant 6:

1800.

Ten . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 7:

1836.

. . . upon the mountain . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 8:

1827.

They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day. 1798. ]


[Variant 9:

1836.

Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day. 1798.

Bent oftentimes to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 1827. ]





* * * * *





THE IDIOT BOY


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


[Alfoxden, 1798. The last stanza, 'The cocks did crow to-whoo,
to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold,' was the foundation of the
whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole;
but I have since heard the same repeated of other idiots. Let me add,
that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost
extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza
was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for,
in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee. --I. F. ]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night,
The moon is up,--the sky is blue,
The owlet, in the moonlight air,
Shouts from [1] nobody knows where;
He lengthens out his lonely shout, 5
Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

--Why bustle thus about your door,
What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret?
And why on horseback have you set 10
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
[2]

Scarcely a soul is out of bed: [3]
Good Betty, put him down again;
His lips with joy they burr at you;
But, Betty! what has he to do 15
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
[4]

But Betty's bent on her intent;
For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 20
As if her very life would fail.

There's not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress;
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
And sorely puzzled are the twain, 25
For what she ails they cannot guess.

And Betty's husband's at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the distant vale;
There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 30
What must be done? what will betide?

And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her Pony, that is mild and good;
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane, 35
Or bringing faggots from the wood.

And he is all in travelling trim,--
And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy
Has on the well-girt saddle set [5]
(The like was never heard of yet) 40
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

And he must post without delay
Across the bridge and through the dale, [6]
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town, 45
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

There is no need of boot or spur,
There is no need of whip or wand;
For Johnny has his holly-bough,
And with a _hurly-burly_ now 50
He shakes the green bough in his hand.

And Betty o'er and o'er has told
The Boy, who is her best delight,
Both what to follow, what to shun,
What do, and what to leave undone, 55
How turn to left, and how to right.

And Betty's most especial charge,
Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
Come home again, nor stop at all,--
Come home again, whate'er befal, 60
My Johnny, do, I pray you do. "

To this did Johnny answer make,
Both with his head and with his hand,
And proudly shook the bridle too;
And then! his words were not a few, 65
Which Betty well could understand.

And now that Johnny is just going,
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
She gently pats the Pony's side,
On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 70
And seems no longer in a hurry.

But when the Pony moved his legs,
Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy!
For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
For joy his head and heels are idle, 75
He's idle all for very joy.

And while the Pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left hand you may see
The green bough [7] motionless and dead:
The Moon that shines above his head 80
Is not more still and mute than he.

His heart it was so full of glee,
That till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forgot his holly whip,
And all his skill in horsemanship: 85
Oh! happy, happy, happy John.

And while the Mother, at the door,
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows [8]
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him in his travelling trim, 90
How quietly her Johnny goes.

The silence of her Idiot Boy,
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
He's at the guide-post--he turns right;
She watches till he's out of sight, 95
And Betty will not then depart.

Burr, burr--now Johnny's lips they burr.
As loud as any mill, or near it;
Meek as a lamb the Pony moves,
And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 100
And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

Away she hies to Susan Gale:
Her Messenger's in merry tune; [9]
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 105
As [10] on he goes beneath the moon.

His steed and he right well agree;
For of this Pony there's a rumour,
That, should he lose his eyes and ears,
And should he live a thousand years, 110
He never will be out of humour.

But then he is a horse that thinks!
And when he thinks, his pace is slack;
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 115
What he has got upon his back.

So through the moonlight lanes they go,
And far into the moonlight dale,
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town, 120
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And Betty, now at Susan's side,
Is in the middle of her story,
What speedy help her Boy will bring, [11]
With many a most diverting thing, 125
Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.

And Betty, still at Susan's side,
By this time is not quite so flurried: [12]
Demure with porringer and plate
She sits, as if in Susan's fate 130
Her life and soul were buried.

But Betty, poor good woman! she,
You plainly in her face may read it,
Could lend out of that moment's store
Five years of happiness or more 135
To any that might need it.

But yet I guess that now and then
With Betty all was not so well;
And to the road she turns her ears,
And thence full many a sound she hears, 140
Which she to Susan will not tell.

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
"As sure as there's a moon in heaven,"
Cries Betty, "he'll be back again;
They'll both be here--'tis almost ten-- 145
Both will be [13] here before eleven. "

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
The clock gives warning for eleven;
'Tis on the stroke--"He must be near,"
Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, [14] 150
As sure as there's a moon in heaven. "

The clock is on the stroke of twelve,
And Johnny is not yet in sight:
--The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,
But Betty is not quite at ease; 155
And Susan has a dreadful night.

And Betty, half an hour ago,
On Johnny vile reflections cast:
"A little idle sauntering Thing! "
With other names, an endless string; 160
But now that time is gone and past.

And Betty's drooping at the heart,
That happy time all past and gone,
"How can it be he is so late?
The Doctor, he has made him wait; 165
Susan! they'll both be here anon. "

And Susan's growing worse and worse,
And Betty's in a sad _quandary_;
And then there's nobody to say
If she must go, or she must stay! 170
--She's in a sad _quandary_.

The clock is on the stroke of one;
But neither Doctor nor his Guide
Appears [15] along the moonlight road;
There's neither horse nor man abroad, 175
And Betty's still at Susan's side.

And Susan now begins to fear [16]
Of sad mischances not a few,
That Johnny may perhaps be drowned;
Or lost, perhaps, and never found; 180
Which they must both for ever rue.

She prefaced half a hint of this
With, "God forbid it should be true! "
At the first word that Susan said
Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 185
"Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.

"I must be gone, I must away:
Consider, Johnny's but half-wise;
Susan, we must take care of him,
If he is hurt in life or limb"-- 190
"Oh God forbid! " poor Susan cries.

"What can I do? " says Betty, going,
"What can I do to ease your pain?
Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay;
I fear you're in a dreadful way, 195
But I shall soon be back again. "

"Nay, Betty, [17] go! good Betty, go!
There's nothing that can ease my pain. "
Then off she hies; but with a prayer
That God poor Susan's life would spare, 200
Till she comes back again.

So, through the moonlight lane she goes,
And far into the moonlight dale;
And how she ran, and how she walked,
And all that to herself she talked, 205
Would surely be a tedious tale.

In high and low, above, below,
In great and small, in round and square,
In tree and tower was Johnny seen,
In bush and brake, in black and green; 210
'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

And while she crossed the bridge, there came
A thought with which her heart is sore--[18]
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,
To hunt the moon within the brook, [19] 215
And never will be heard of more.

Now is she high [20] upon the down,
Alone amid a prospect wide;
There's neither Johnny nor his Horse
Among the fern or in the gorse; 220
There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.

"Oh saints! what is become of him?
Perhaps he's climbed into an oak,
Where he will stay till he is dead;
Or, sadly he has been misled, 225
And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.

"Or him that wicked Pony's carried
To the dark cave, the goblin's hall;
Or in the castle he's pursuing
Among the ghosts his own undoing; 230
Or playing with the waterfall. "

At poor old Susan then she railed,
While to the town she posts away;
"If Susan had not been so ill,
Alas! I should have had him still, 235
My Johnny, till my dying day. "

Poor Betty, in this sad distemper,
The Doctor's self could [21] hardly spare:
Unworthy things she talked, and wild;
Even he, of cattle the most mild, 240
The Pony had his share.

But now she's fairly in the town, [22]
And to the Doctor's door she hies;
'Tis silence all on every side;
The town so long, the town so wide, 245
Is silent as the skies.

And now she's at the Doctor's door,
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap;
The Doctor at the casement shows
His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! 250
And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny? "
"I'm here, what is't you want with me? "
"Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy,
And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 255
You know him--him you often see;

"He's not so wise as some folks be":
"The devil take his wisdom! " said
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim,
"What, Woman! should I know of him? " 260
And, grumbling, he went back to bed!

"O woe is me! O woe is me!
Here will I die; here will I die;
I thought to find my lost one here, [23]
But he is neither far nor near, 265
Oh! what a wretched Mother I! "

She stops, she stands, she looks about;
Which way to turn she cannot tell.
Poor Betty! it would ease her pain
If she had heart to knock again; 270
--The clock strikes three--a dismal knell!

Then up along the town she hies,
No wonder if her senses fail;
This piteous news so much it shocked her,
She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 275
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And now she's high upon the down,
And she can see a mile of road:
"O cruel! I'm almost threescore;
Such night as this was ne'er before, 280
There's not a single soul abroad. "

She listens, but she cannot hear
The foot of horse, the voice of man;
The streams with softest sound are flowing,
The grass you almost hear it growing, 285
You hear it now, if e'er you can.

The owlets through the long blue night
Are shouting to each other still:
Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob,
They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 290
That echoes far from hill to hill.

Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin,
A green-grown pond she just has past,
And from the brink she hurries fast, 295
Lest she should drown herself therein.

And now she sits her down and weeps;
Such tears she never shed before;
"Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy!
Oh carry back my Idiot Boy! 300
And we will ne'er o'erload thee more. "

A thought is come into her head:
The Pony he is mild and good,
And we have always used him well;
Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 305
And carried Johnny to the wood.

Then up she springs as if on wings;
She thinks no more of deadly sin;
If Betty fifty ponds should see,
The last of all her thoughts would be 310
To drown herself therein.

O Reader! now that I might tell
What Johnny and his Horse are doing!
What they've been doing all this time,
Oh could I put it into rhyme, 315
A most delightful tale pursuing!

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
He with his Pony now doth roam
The cliffs and peaks so high that are,
To lay his hands upon a star, 320
And in his pocket bring it home.

Perhaps he's turned himself about,
His face unto his horse's tail,
And, still and mute, in wonder lost,
All silent as a horseman-ghost, 325
He travels slowly down the vale. [24]

And now, perhaps, is hunting [25] sheep,
A fierce and dreadful hunter he;
Yon valley, now so trim [26] and green,
In five months' time, should he be seen, 330
A desert wilderness will be!

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
And like the very soul of evil,
He's galloping away, away,
And so will gallop [27] on for aye, 335
The bane of all that dread the devil!

I to the Muses have been bound
These fourteen years, by strong indentures: [A]
O gentle Muses! let me tell
But half of what to him befel; 340
He surely met [28] with strange adventures.

O gentle Muses! is this kind?
Why will ye thus my suit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can ye thus unfriended [29] leave me; 345
Ye Muses!