Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works
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TO THE SAME

          ENOUGH of climbing toil!--Ambition treads
          Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough,
          Or slippery even to peril! and each step,
          As we for most uncertain recompence
          Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds,
          Each weary step, dwarfing the world below,
          Induces, for its old familiar sights,
          Unacceptable feelings of contempt,
          With wonder mixed--that Man could e'er be tied,
          In anxious bondage, to such nice array                      10
          And formal fellowship of petty things!
          --Oh! 'tis the 'heart' that magnifies this life,
          Making a truth and beauty of her own;
          And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades,
          And gurgling rills, assist her in the work
          More efficaciously than realms outspread,
          As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze--
          Ocean and Earth contending for regard.
            The umbrageous woods are left--how far beneath!
          But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth             20
          Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed
          With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still
          And sultry air, depending motionless.
          Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered
          (As whoso enters shall ere long perceive)
          By stealthy influx of the timid day
          Mingling with night, such twilight to compose
          As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian grot,
          From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish,
          He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask,                  30
          Or need, of counsel breathed through lips divine.
            Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave
          Protect us, there deciphering as we may
          Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth
          Interpreting; or counting for old Time
          His minutes, by reiterated drops,
          Audible tears, from some invisible source
          That deepens upon fancy--more and more
          Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep forth
          To awe the lightness of humanity:                           40
          Or, shutting up thyself within thyself,
          There let me see thee sink into a mood
          Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye
          Be calm as water when the winds are gone,
          And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend!
          We two have known such happy hours together
          That, were power granted to replace them (fetched
          From out the pensive shadows where they lie)
          In the first warmth of their original sunshine,
          Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet                   50
          Are the domains of tender memory!
                                                              1817.


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