No weedy grassland, no neglected hillside,
Unused by man, unfostered by the sun,
No, not one puny, mud-banked, stagnant streamlet
O’er which at dusk the meanest insects hum,
But will shine out a very star in splendour
When he at last, the long-desired, shall come.
“Do you then purpose to abide his coming
On this bleak ridgeway, watching from afar,
Wearing your soul out in a fruitless longing,
like one who waits to espy some unborn star?