One who was suffering tumult in his soul,
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer,
Went forth, his course surrendering to the care
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl
Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear
The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,
And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl
As if the sun were not. He raised his eye
Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear
Large space (‘mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky,
An azure disc, shield of Tranquillity;
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister
Of providential goodness ever nigh!
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
More by William Wordsworth
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog