simma dawn naw...

I look about; and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
I cannot miss my way. I breathe again;
Trances of thought and mountings of the heart
Come fast upon me; it is shaken off...

Content, and not unwilling now to give
A respite to this passion, I pace on
With brisk and eager steps, and came at length
To a green shady place where down I sate
Beneath a tree, slakening my thoughts by choice,
And settling into a gentler happieness.

'Twas Autumn, and a clear placid day,
With warmth much needed, from a sun
Two hours declined towards the west, a day,
With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass,
And, in the sheltered and the sheltering grove
A perfect stillness...

The poet, gentle creature as he is,
Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times,
His fits when he is neither sick nor well
Though no distress be near him but his own
Unmanageable thoughts; his mind, best pleas'd
While she, as duteous as the Mother Dove,
Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,
But, like the innocent Bird, hath goadings on
That drive her, as in trouble, through the groves;
With me is now such passion, to be blamed
No otherwise than as it lasts too long...

-Wordsworth, from Growth of a Poet's Mind