William Wordsworth

[shraibman]

I DROPPED my pen; and listened to the Wind
That sang of trees uptorn and vessels tost--
A midnight harmony; and wholly lostT
o the general sense of men by chains confined
Of business, care, or pleasure; or resignedT
o timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain,
Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain,
Like acceptation from the World will find.
Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink
A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past;
And to the attendant promise will give heed--
The prophecy,--like that of this wild blast,
Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink,
Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.