The Prelude. William Wordsworth

And sorrow is not there! The seasons came,

       And every season wheresoe'er I moved

       Unfolded transitory qualities,

       Which, but for this most watchful power of love,

       Had been neglected; left a register

       Of permanent relations, else unknown.

       Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude

       More active even than "best society"—

       Society made sweet as solitude

       By silent inobtrusive sympathies,

       And gentle agitations of the mind

       From manifold distinctions, difference

       Perceived in things, where, to the unwatchful eye,

       No difference is, and hence, from the same source,

       Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone,

       Under the quiet stars, and at that time

       Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound

       To breathe an elevated mood, by form

       Or image unprofaned; and I would stand,

       If the night blackened with a coming storm,

       ​Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are

       The ghostly language of the ancient earth,

       Or make their dim abode in distant winds.

       Thence did I drink the visionary power;

       And deem not profitless those fleeting moods

       Of shadowy exultation: not for this,

       That they are kindred to our purer mind

       And intellectual life; but that the soul,

       Remembering how she felt, but what she felt

       Remembering not, retains an obscure sense

       Of possible sublimity, whereto

       With growing faculties she doth aspire,

       With faculties still growing, feeling still

       That whatsoever point they gain, they yet

       Have something to pursue.

      And not alone,

       'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair

       And tranquil scenes, that universal power

       And fitness in the latent qualities

       And essences of things, by which the mind

       Is moved with feelings of delight, to me

       Came, strengthened with a superadded soul,

       A virtue not its own. My morning walks

       Were early;—oft before the hours of school

       I travelled round our little lake, five miles

       ​Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear

       For this, that one was by my side, a Friend,(³) Then passionately loved; with heart how full Would he peruse these lines! For many years Have since flowed in between us, and, our minds Both silent to each other, at this time We live as if those hours had never been. Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush Was audible; and sate among the woods Alone upon some jutting eminence, At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale, Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. How shall I seek the origin? where find Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt? Oft in these moments such a holy calm Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw Appeared like something in myself, a dream, A prospect in the mind. 'Twere long to tell What spring and autumn, what the winter snows, And what the summer shade, what day and night, Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought ​From sources inexhaustible, poured forth To feed the spirit of religious love In which I walked with Nature. But let this Be not forgotten, that I still retained My first creative sensibility; That by the regular action of the world My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power Abode with me; a forming hand, at times Rebellious, acting in a devious mood; A local spirit of his own, at war With general tendency, but, for the most, Subservient strictly to external things With which it communed. An auxiliar light Came from my mind, which on the setting sun Bestowed new splendour; the melodious birds, The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed A like dominion, and the midnight storm Grew darker in the presence of my eye: Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, And hence my transport. Nor should this, perchance, Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved The exercise and produce of a toil, Than analytic industry to me ​More pleasing, and whose character I deem Is more poetic as resembling more Creative agency. The song would speak Of that interminable building reared By observation of affinities In objects where no brotherhood exists To passive minds. My seventeenth year was come; And, whether from this habit rooted now So deeply in my mind, or from excess In the great social principle of life Coercing all things into sympathy, To unorganic natures were transferred My own enjoyments; or the power of truth Coming in revelation, did converse With things that really are; I, at this time, Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on, From Nature and her overflowing soul, I had received so much, that all my thoughts Were steeped in feeling; I was only then Contented, when with bliss ineffable I felt the sentiment of Being spread O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still; O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought And human knowledge, to the human eye ​Invisible, yet liveth to the heart; O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that glides Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not If high the transport, great the joy I felt, Communing in this sort through earth and heaven With every form of creature, as it looked Towards the Uncreated with a countenance Of adoration, with an eye of love. One song they sang, and it was audible, Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed.

      If this be error, and another faith

       Find easier access to the pious mind,

       Yet were I grossly destitute of all

       Those human sentiments that make this earth

       So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice

       To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes

       And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds

       That dwell among the hills where I was born.

       If in my youth I have been pure in heart,

       If, mingling with the world, I am content

       ​With my own modest pleasures, and have lived

       With God and Nature communing, removed

       From little enmities and low desires,

       The gift is yours; if in these times of fear,

       This melancholy waste of hopes overthrown,

       If, 'mid indifference and apathy,

       And wicked exultation when good men

       On every side fall off, we know not how,

       To selfishness, disguised in gentle names

       Of peace and quiet and domestic love,

       Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers

       On visionary minds; if, in this time

       Of dereliction and dismay, I yet

       Despair not of our nature, but retain

       A more than Roman confidence, a faith

       That fails not, in all sorrow my support,

       The blessing of my life; the gift is yours,

       Ye winds and sounding cataracts! 'tis yours,

       Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fed