Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/159

BOOK VI.] The deepest and the best, what keen research,

Unbiassed, unbewildered, and unawed?

The Poet's soul was with me at that time;

Sweet meditations, the still overflow

Of present happiness, while future years

Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams,

No few of which have since been realised;

And some remain, hopes for my future life.

Four years and thirty, told this very week,

Have I been now a sojourner on earth,

By sorrow not unsmitten; yet for me

Life's morning radiance hath not left the hills,

Her dew is on the flowers. Those were the days

Which also first emboldened me to trust

With firmness, hitherto but lightly touched

By such a daring thought, that I might leave

Some monument behind me which pure hearts

Should reverence. The instinctive humbleness,

Maintained even by the very name and thought

Of printed books and authorship, began

To melt away; and further, the dread awe

Of mighty names was softened down and seemed

Approachable, admitting fellowship

Of modest sympathy. Such aspect now,