The Old Man still stood talking by my side; Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; Like one whom I had met with in a dream; Or like a Man from some far region sent; To give me human strength, and strong admonishment. My former thoughts return'd: the fear that kills; The hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said, My question eagerly did I renew, "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" He with a smile did then his words repeat; He travelled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the Ponds where they abide. While he was talking thus, the lonely place, About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued, And soon with this he other matter blended, “God,” said I, "be my help and stay secure; I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor." |