Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/362

302 Drive as she drives;—how fast they wheel away,

Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree,

But they are silent;—still they roll along

Immeasureably distant;—and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,

Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,

Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,

Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.