But as a face we love is sweetest then
  When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look
  It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart
  Have fullness in herself; even so with me
  It fared that evening.  Gently did my soul
  Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood
  Naked, as in the presence of her God. 
  While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch
  A heart that had not been disconsolate: 
  Strength came where weakness was not known to be,
  At least not felt; and restoration came
  Like an intruder knocking at the door
  Of unacknowledged weariness.  I took
  The balance, and with firm hand weighted myself. 
  —­Of that external scene which round me lay,
  Little, in this abstraction, did I see;
  Remembered less; but I had inward hopes
  And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed,
  Conversed with promises, had glimmering views
  How life pervades the undecaying mind;
  How the immortal soul with God-like power
  Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep
  That time can lay upon her; how on earth,
  Man, if he do but live within the light
  Of high endeavors, daily spreads abroad
  His being armed with strength that cannot fail
  Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love
  Of innocence, and holiday repose;
  And more than pastoral quiet, ’mid the stir
  Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end
  At last, or glorious, by endurance won. 
  Thus musing, in a wood I sat me down
  Alone, continuing there to muse:  the slopes
  And heights meanwhile were slowly overspread
  With darkness, and before a rippling breeze
  The long lake lengthened out its hoary line,
  And in the sheltered coppice where I sat,
  Around me from among the hazel leaves,
  Now here, now there, moved by the straggling wind,
  Came ever and anon a breath-like sound,
  Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog,
  The off and on companion of my work;
  And such, at times, believing them to be,
  I turned my head to look if he were there;
  Then into solemn thought I passed once more. 
    A freshness also found I at this time
  In human Life, the daily life of those
  Whose occupations really I loved;
  The peaceful scene oft filled me with surprise,
  Changed like a garden in the heat of spring
  After an eight days’ absence.  For (to omit
  The things which were the same and yet appeared
  Far otherwise) amid this rural solitude. 
  A narrow Vale where each was known to all,
  ’Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind
  To mark some sheltering bower or sunny nook,
  Where an old man had used to sit alone,
  Now vacant; pale-faced babes whom I had left
  In arms, now rosy prattlers at the feet
  Of a pleased grandame tottering up and down;
  And growing girls whose beauty, filched away
  With all its pleasant promises, was gone