Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/220

198 As with the might of waters; an apt type

This label seemed of the utmost we can know,

Both of ourselves and of the universe;

And, on the shape of that unmoving man,

His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed,

As if admonished from another world.

Though reared upon the base of outward things,

Structures like these the excited spirit mainly

Builds for herself; scenes different there are,

Full-formed, that take, with small internal help,

Possession of the faculties,—the peace

That comes with night; the deep solemnity

Of nature's intermediate hours of rest,

When the great tide of human life stands still;

The business of the day to come, unborn,

Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave;

The blended calmness of the heavens and earth,

Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and sounds

Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours

Of winter evenings, when unwholesome rains

Are falling hard, with people yet astir,

The feeble salutation from the voice

Of some unhappy woman, now and then

Heard as we pass, when no one looks about,