Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/27

BOOK I.] In breaking up a long-continued frost,

Bring with them vernal promises, the hope

Of active days urged on by flying hours,—

Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought

Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high,

Matins and vespers of harmonious verse!

Thus far, Friend! did I, not used to make

A present joy the matter of a song,

Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains

That would not be forgotten, and are here

Recorded: to the open fields I told

A prophecy: poetic numbers came

Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe

A renovated spirit singled out,

Such hope was mine, for holy services.

My own voice cheered me, and, far more, the mind's

Internal echo of the imperfect sound;

To both I listened, drawing from them both

A cheerful confidence in things to come.

Content and not unwilling now to give

A respite to this passion, I paced on

With brisk and eager steps; and came, at length,

To a green shady place, where down I sate