Hither the Poet came.  His eyes beheld
Their own wan light through the reflected lines 470
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth
Of that still fountain; as the human heart,
Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave,
Sees its own treacherous likeness there.  He heard
The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung 475
Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel
An unaccustomed presence, and the sound
Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs
Of that dark fountain rose.  A Spirit seemed
To stand beside him—­clothed in no bright robes 480
Of shadowy silver or enshrining light,
Borrowed from aught the visible world affords
Of grace, or majesty, or mystery;—­
But, undulating woods, and silent well,
And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom 485
Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming,
Held commune with him, as if he and it
Were all that was,—­only...when his regard
Was raised by intense pensiveness,...two eyes,
Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought, 490
And seemed with their serene and azure smiles
To beckon him.

Obedient to the light
That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing
The windings of the dell.—­The rivulet,
Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine 495
Beneath the forest flowed.  Sometimes it fell
Among the moss with hollow harmony
Dark and profound.  Now on the polished stones
It danced; like childhood laughing as it went: 
Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept, 500
Reflecting every herb and drooping bud
That overhung its quietness.—­’O stream! 
Whose source is inaccessibly profound,
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend? 
Thou imagest my life.  Thy darksome stillness, 505
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs,
Thy searchless fountain, and invisible course
Have each their type in me; and the wide sky. 
And measureless ocean may declare as soon
What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud 510
Contains thy waters, as the universe
Tell where these living thoughts reside, when stretched
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste
I’ the passing wind!’

Beside the grassy shore
Of the small stream he went; he did impress 515
On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught
Strong shuddering from his burning limbs.  As one
Roused by some joyous madness from the couch
Of fever, he did move; yet, not like him,
Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame 520
Of his frail exultation shall be spent,
He must descend.  With rapid steps he went
Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow