Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/35

BOOK I.] That mellower years will bring a riper mind

And clearer insight. Thus my days are past

In contradiction; with no skill to part

Vague longing, haply bred by want of power,

From paramount impulse not to be withstood,

A timorous capacity from prudence,

From circumspection, infinite delay.

Humility and modest awe themselves

Betray me, serving often for a cloak

To a more subtle selfishness; that now

Locks every function up in blank reserve,

Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye

That with intrusive restlessness beats off

Simplicity and self-presented truth.

Ah! better far than this, to stray about

Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,

And ask no record of the hours, resigned

To vacant musing, unreproved neglect

Of all things, and deliberate holiday.

Far better never to have heard the name

Of zeal and just ambition, than to live

Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour

Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,

Then feels immediately some hollow thought

Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.