[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,
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
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,
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.
A SIMPLE Child,
That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?
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,
Is lightened: that serene and blessed mood,
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,
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-
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