Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/187

BOOK VI.] The breathless wilderness of clouds; the clock

That told, with unintelligible voice,

The widely parted hours; the noise of streams,

And sometimes rustling motions nigh at hand,

That did not leave us free from personal fear;

And, lastly, the withdrawing moon, that set

Before us, while she still was high in heaven;—

These were our food; and such a summer's night

Followed that pair of golden days that shed

On Como's Lake, and all that round it lay,

Their fairest, softest, happiest influence.

But here I must break off, and bid farewell

To days, each offering some new sight, or fraught

With some untried adventure, in a course

Prolonged till sprinklings of autumnal snow

Checked our unwearied steps. Let this alone

Be mentioned as a parting word, that not

In hollow exultation, dealing out

Hyperboles of praise comparative;

Not rich one moment to be poor for ever;

Not prostrate, overborne, as if the mind

Herself were nothing, a mere pensioner

On outward forms—did we in presence stand

Of that magnificent region. On the front