Is lightened.
Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey.
The fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey.
The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me