Influence of Natural Objects

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou Soul, that art the eternity of thought! And giv’st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion! not in vain, By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul— Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man, But with high objects, with enduring things, With Life and Nature; purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying by such discipline Both pain and fear,—until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapors rolling down the valleys made A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and ’mid the calm of summer nights, When, by the margin of the trembling lake, Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went In solitude, such intercourse was mine. Mine was it in the fields both day and night, And by the waters, all the Summer long; And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and, visible for many a mile, The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons. Happy time It was indeed for all of us; for me It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village-clock tolled six; I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn, The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle. With the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy, not unnoticed; while the stars, Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star— Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain. And oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping thro’ the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me,—even as if the Earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler; and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.