Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/31

BOOK I.] His fits when he is neither sick nor well,

Though no distress be near him but his own

Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased

While she as duteous as the mother dove

Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on

That drive her as in trouble through the groves;

With me is now such passion, to be blamed

No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

When, as becomes a man who would prepare

For such an arduous work, I through myself

Make rigorous inquisition, the report

Is often cheering; for I neither seem

To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,

Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort

Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,

Subordinate helpers of the living mind:

Nor am I naked of external things,

Forms, images, nor numerous other aids

Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil

And needful to build up a Poet's praise.

Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these

Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such

As may be singled out with steady choice;