Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/158

 To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love.

And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent.

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers: You scarce could see the grass for flowers.

I wonder'd, while I paced along: The woods were fill'd so full with song, There seem'd no room for sense of wrong.

So variously seem'd all things wrought, I marvell'd how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought;