Then, tho’ he knew not wherefore, started up
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle
Return’d upon him, had not his poor heart
Spoken with That, which being everywhere
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 620
Surely the man had died of solitude.
Thus over Enoch’s early-silvering head
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went
Year after year. His hopes to see his own,
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 625