Wednesday, February 05, 2020

The Prelude

The Prelude 
by William Wordsworth

When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, 
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, 
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude; 
How potent a mere image of her sway; 
Most potent when impressed upon the mind 
With an appropriate human centre—hermit,  
Deep in the bosom of the wilderness; 
Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot 
Is treading, where no other face is seen) 
Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on the top 
Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves; 
Or as the soul of that great Power is met 
Sometimes embodied on a public road, 
When, for the night deserted, it assumes 
A character of quiet more profound 
Than pathless wastes.


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