The Prelude. William Wordsworth

sheltered and the sheltering grove

       A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts

       Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made

       Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn,

       Nor rest till they had reached the very door

       Of the one cottage which methought I saw.

       No picture of mere memory ever looked

       So fair; and while upon the fancied scene

       I gazed with growing love, a higher power

       Than Fancy gave assurance of some work

       Of glory there forthwith to be begun,

       Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I mused,

       Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon,

       Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks,

       Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup

       Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once

       To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound.

       From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun

       Had almost touched the horizon; casting then

       ​A backward glance upon the curling cloud

       Of city smoke, by distance ruralised;

       Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive,

       But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took,

       Even with the chance equipment of that hour,

       The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale.

       It was a splendid evening, and my soul

       Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked

       Æolian visitations; but the harp

       Was soon defrauded, and the banded host

       Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds,

       And lastly utter silence! "Be it so;

       Why think of any thing but present good?"

       So, like a home-bound labourer I pursued

       My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed

       Mild influence; nor left in me one wish

       Again to bend the Sabbath of that time

       To a servile yoke. What need of many words?

       A pleasant loitering journey, through three days

       Continued, brought me to my hermitage.

       I spare to tell of what ensued, the life

       In common things—the endless store of things,

       Rare, or at least so seeming, every day

       Found all about me in one neighbourhood—

       The self-congratulation, and, from morn

       ​To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene.

       But speedily an earnest longing rose

       To brace myself to some determined aim,

       Reading or thinking; either to lay up

       New stores, or rescue from decay the old

       By timely interference: and therewith

       Came hopes still higher, that with outward life

       I might endue some airy phantasies

       That had been floating loose about for years,

       And to such beings temperately deal forth

       The many feelings that oppressed my heart.

       That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light

       Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear

       And mock me with a sky that ripens not

       Into a steady morning: if my mind,

       Remembering the bold promise of the past,

       Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,

       Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds

       Impediments from day to day renewed.

      And now it would content me to yield up

       Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts

       Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend!

       The Poet, gentle creature as he is,

       Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;

       ​His fits when he is neither sick nor well,

       Though no distress be near him but his own

       Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased

       While she as duteous as the mother dove

       Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

       But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on

       That drive her as in trouble through the groves;

       With me is now such passion, to be blamed

       No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

      When, as becomes a man who would prepare

       For such an arduous work, I through myself

       Make rigorous inquisition, the report

       Is often cheering; for I neither seem

       To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,

       Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort

       Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,

       Subordinate helpers of the living mind:

       Nor am I naked of external things,

       Forms, images, nor numerous other aids

       Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil

       And needful to build up a Poet's praise.

       Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these

       Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such

       As may be singled out with steady choice;

       ​No little band of yet remembered names

       Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope

       To summon back from lonesome banishment,

       And make them dwellers in the hearts of men

       Now living, or to live in future years.

       Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking

       Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,

       Will settle on some British theme, some old

       Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;

       More often turning to some gentle place

       Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe

       To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,

       Amid reposing knights by a river side

       Or fountain, listen to the grave reports

       Of dire enchantments faced and overcome

       By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats,

       Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword

       Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry

       That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife;

       Whence inspiration for a song that winds

       Through ever changing scenes of votive quest

       Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid

       To patient courage and unblemished truth,

       To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,

       And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.