Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/239

187 Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turn'd round, walks on

And turns no more his head:

Because he knows, a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breath'd a wind on me,

Nor sound nor motion made:

Its path was not upon the sea

In ripple or in shade.

It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek,

Like a meadow-gale of spring—

It mingled strangely with my fears,

Yet it felt like a welcoming.