Page:The Recluse, Wordsworth, 1888.djvu/14

2 His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been

As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said,

"What happy fortune were it here to live!

And, if a thought of dying, if a thought

Of mortal separation, could intrude

With paradise before him, here to die!"

No Prophet was he, had not even a hope,

Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought,

A fancy in the heart of what might be

The lot of others, never could be his.

The station whence he looked was soft and green,

Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth

Of vale below, a height of hills above.

For rest of body perfect was the spot,

All that luxurious nature could desire;

But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze