This small abiding-place of many men,
A termination, and a last retreat,
A centre, come from wheresoe’er you will,
A whole without dependence or defect,
Made for itself; and happy in itself, 150
Perfect Contentment, Unity entire.
Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,[361]
When hitherward we journeyed, side by side,
Through bursts of sunshine and through flying showers,
Paced the long Vales—how long they were—and yet 155