Page:The Recluse, Wordsworth, 1888.djvu/64

52 I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not

The darkest pit of lowest Erebus,

Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out

By help of dreams—can breed such fear and awe

As fall upon us often when we look

Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man—

My haunt, and the main region of my song

—Beauty—a living Presence of the earth,

Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms

Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed

From earth's materials—waits upon my steps;

Pitches her tents before me as I move,

An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves

Elysian, Fortunate Fields—like those of old

Sought in the Atlantic Main—why should they be

A history only of departed things,