Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/142

120 To the broad follies of the licensed world,

Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd,

And can read lectures upon innocence;

A miracle of scientific lore,

Ships he can guide across the pathless sea,

And tell you all their cunning; he can read

The inside of the earth, and spell the stars;

He knows the policies of foreign lands;

Can string you names of districts, cities, towns,

The whole world over, tight as beads of dew

Upon a gossamer thread; he sifts, he weighs;

All things are put to question; he must live

Knowing that he grows wiser every day

Or else not live at all, and seeing too

Each little drop of wisdom as it falls

Into the dimpling cistern of his heart:

For this unnatural growth the trainer blame,

Pity the tree.—Poor human vanity,

Wert thou extinguished, little would be left

Which he could truly love; but how escape?

For, ever as a thought of purer birth

Rises to lead him toward a better clime,

Some intermeddler still is on the watch

To drive him back, and pound him, like a stray,

Within the pinfold of his own conceit.