Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows              

          Like harmony in music; there is a dark

          Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles

          Discordant elements, makes them cling together

          In one society. How strange, that all

          The terrors, pains, and early miseries,

          Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused

          Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part,

          And that a needful part, in making up

          The calm existence that is mine when I

          Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end!                  

          Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ;

          Whether her fearless visitings, or those

          That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light

          Opening the peaceful clouds; or she would use

          Severer interventions, ministry

          More palpable, as best might suit her aim.

            One summer evening (led by her) I found

          A little boat tied to a willow tree

          Within a rocky cave, its usual home.

          Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in           

          Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth

          And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice

          Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;

          Leaving behind her still, on either side,

          Small circles glittering idly in the moon,

          Until they melted all into one track

          Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,

          Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point

          With an unswerving line, I fixed my view

          Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,                       

          The horizon's utmost boundary; far above

          Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.

          She was an elfin pinnace; lustily

          I dipped my oars into the silent lake,

          And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat

          Went heaving through the water like a swan;

          When, from behind that craggy steep till then

          The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,

          As if with voluntary power instinct,

          Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,            

          And growing still in stature the grim shape

          Towered up between me and the stars, and still,

          For so it seemed, with purpose of its own

          And measured motion like a living thing,

          Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,

          And through the silent water stole my way

          Back to the covert of the willow tree;

          There in her mooring-place I left my bark,--

          And through the meadows homeward went, in grave

          And serious mood; but after I had seen                   

          That spectacle, for many days, my brain

          Worked with a dim and undetermined sense

          Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts

          There hung a darkness, call it solitude

          Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes

          Remained, no pleasant images of trees,

          Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;

          But huge and mighty forms, that do not live

          Like living men, moved slowly through the mind

          By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.