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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

A NIGHT-PIECE

[Written 1798. Publ. 1815]

Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described, 'He looks up- the clouds are split," etc.

THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground- from rock, plant,

tree, or tower.

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 10 Bent earthwards; he looks up- the clouds

are split

Asunder, and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel
away,

Yet vanish not! — the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent; - still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enor-
mous clouds,

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Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

WE ARE SEVEN

A SIMPLE Child,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

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As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the
din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:- feelings too 30
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed
mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the, heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,

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Is lightened: that serene and blessed mood,

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Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the
woods,

How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now,
with gleams of half-extin-
guished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

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Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be ma-
tured

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh!
then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, per-

chance

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