Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/36

14 This is my lot; for either still I find

Some imperfection in the chosen theme,

Or see of absolute accomplishment

Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,

That I recoil and droop, and seek repose

In listlessness from vain perplexity,

Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,

Like a false steward who hath much received

And renders nothing back.

Was it for this

That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved

To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song,

And, from his alder shades and rocky falls,

And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice

That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou,

O Derwent! winding among grassy holms

Where I was looking on, a babe in arms,

Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts

To more than infant softness, giving me

Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind

A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm

That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.

When he had left the mountains and received

On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers

That yet survive, a shattered monument