Through narrow be that old Man’s cares, and near,
The poor old Man is greater than he seems:
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer;
The region of his inner spirit teems
With vital sounds and monitory gleams
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
He the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,
And counted them: and oftentimes will start
For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL’S HOUNDS
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart
To chase for ever, on aerial grounds!
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
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