396. The Inner Vision

William Wordsworth (1770—1850)

  MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

  To pace the ground, if path there be or none

  While a fair region round the Traveller lies

  Which he forbears again to look upon;

  Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene

  The work of Fancy, or some happy tone

  Of meditation, slipping in between

  The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

  —If Thought and Love desert us, from that day

  Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:

  With Thought and Love companions of our way—

  Whate’er the senses take or may refuse,—

  The Mind’s internal heaven shall shed her dews

  Of inspiration on the humblest lay.