Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that runs down from the _Comb_, in which stands the village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden.

It was a chosen resort of mine.

The brook fell down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable for that country; and, across the pool below, had fallen a tree, an ash, if I rightly remember, from which rose, perpendicularly, boughs in search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above.

The boughs bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the waterfall.

This motion varied, of course, in proportion to the power of water in the brook.