The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.