The Old Man still stood talking by my side; Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; And the whole Body of the man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream; Or like a Man from some far region sent; To give me human strength, and strong admonishment. My former thoughts return'd: the fear that kills; The hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said, My question eagerly did I renew, "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide He travelled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the Ponds where they abide. While he was talking thus, the lonely place, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. And soon with this he other matter blended, “God,” said I, "be my help and stay secure; I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor.” |