For thou hast known a life,
Lonely, amid the Poets’ mountain-throng—
Whose cloudy snows concealed eternal fire!
I could have told thee all the sylvan joy
Of trackless woods; the meadows, far apart,
Within whose fragrant grass, a lonely boy,
I thought of God; the trumpet at my heart,
When on bleak mountains roared the midnight storm
And I was bathed in lightning, broad and grand:—
Oh, more than all, with low and sacred breath