Page:Poems and extracts - Wordsworth.djvu/61

  Though our wise-ones call thee madness Let me never taste of gladness If I love not thy maddest fits More than all their greatest wits. And though some too, seeming holy, Do accout thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contenm What makes knaves and fools of them. Oh high Power! that oft doth carry Men above. . . . . Rh