I.

It is the thirty-first of March, A gusty evening--half-past seven; The moon is shining o'er the larch, A simple shape--a cock'd-up arch, Rising bigger than a star, Though the stars are thick in Heaven.

Gentle moon! how canst thou shine Over graves and over trees, With as innocent a look As my own grey eyeball sees, When I gaze upon a brook?

Od's me! how the moon doth shine: It doth make a pretty glitter, Playing in the waterfall; As when Lucy Gray doth litter Her baby-house with bugles small.

Beneath the ever blessed moon An old man o'er an old grave stares, You never look'd upon his fellow; His brow is covered with grey hairs, As though they were an umbrella.

He hath a noticeable look,[90] This old man hath--this grey old man; He gazes at the graves, and seems, With over waiting, over wan, Like Susan Harvey's[91] pan of creams.

'Tis Peter Bell--'t is Peter Bell, Who never stirreth in the day; His hand is wither'd--he is old! On Sundays he is us'd to pray, In winter he is very cold.[92]