Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/26

4 I look about; and should the chosen guide

Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,

I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!

Trances of thought and mountings of the mind

Come fast upon me: it is shaken off,

That burthen of my own unnatural self,

The heavy weight of many a weary day

Not mine, and such as were not made for me.

Long months of peace (if such bold word accord

With any promises of human life),

Long months of ease and undisturbed delight

Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn,

By road or pathway, or through trackless field,

Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing

Upon the river point me out my course?

Dear Liberty! Yet what would it avail

But for a gift that consecrates the joy?

For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven

Was blowing on my body, felt within

A correspondent breeze, that gently moved

With quickening virtue, but is now become

A tempest, a redundant energy,

Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both,

And their congenial powers, that, while they join