Classic Poem

I have seen the Baker's horse
As he had been accustomed at your door
Stop with the loaded wain, when o'er his head
Smack went the whip, and you were left, as if
You were not born to live, or there had been
No bread in all the land. Five little ones,
They at the rumbling of the distant wheels
Had all come forth, and, ere the grove of birch
Concealed the wain, into their wretched hut
They all returned. While in the road I stood
Pursuing with involuntary look
The wain now seen no longer, to my side
came, a pitcher in her hand
Filled from the spring; she saw what way my eyes
Were turned, and in a low and fearful voice
By misery and rumination deep
Tied to dead things, and seeking sympathy
She said: ‘that waggon does not care for us’—
The words were simple, but her look and voice
Made up their meaning, and bespoke a mind
Which being long neglected, and denied
The common food of hope, was now become
Sick and extravagant,—by strong access
Of momentary pangs driven to that state
In which all past experience melts away,
And the rebellious heart to its own will
Fashions the laws of nature.