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Here are the needs of manhood satisfied!

Sane breath, an amplitude for soul and sense,

The noonday silence of the summer hills,

And this embracing solitude; o’er all

The sky unsearchable, which lays its claim,—

A large redemption not to be annulled,—

Upon the heart; and far below, the sea

Breaking and breaking, smoothly, silently.

What need I any further? Now once more

My arrested life begins, and I am man

Complete with eye, heart, brain, and that within

Which is the centre and the light of being;

O dull! who morning after morning chose

Never to climb these gorse and heather slopes

Cairn-crowned, but last within one seaward nook

Wasted my soul on the ambiguous speech

And slow eye-mesmerism of rolling waves,

Courting oblivion of the heart. True life

That was not which possessed me while I lay

Prone on the perilous edge, mere eye and ear,

Staring upon the bright monotony,

Having let slide all force from me, each thought

Yield to the vision of the gleaming blank,

Each nerve of motion and of sense grow numb,

Till to the bland persuasion of some breeze,

Which played across my forehead and my hair,

The lost volition would efface itself,

And I was mingled wholly in the sound

Of tumbling billow and upjetting surge,

Long reluctation, welter and refluent moan,

And the reverberating tumultuousness

’Mid shelf and hollow and angle black with spray.

Yet under all oblivion there remained

A sense of some frustration, a pale dream

Of Nature mocking man, and drawing down,

As streams draw down the dust of gold, his will,

His thought and passion to enrich herself

The insatiable devourer.

Welcome earth,

My natural heritage! and this soft turf,

These rocks which no insidious ocean saps,

But the wide air flows over, and the sun

Illumines. Take me, Mother, to thy breast,

Gather me close in tender, sustinent arms,

Lay bare thy bosom’s sweetness and its strength

That I may drink vigour and joy and love.

Oh, infinite composure of the hills!

Thou large simplicity of this fair world,

Candour and calmness, with no mockery,

No soft frustration, flattering sigh or smile

Which masks a tyrannous purpose; and ye Powers

Of these sky-circled heights, and Presences

Awful and strict, I find you favourable,

Who seek not to exclude me or to slay,

Rather accept my being, take me up

Into your silence and your peace. Therefore

By him whom ye reject not, gracious Ones,

Pure vows are made that haply he will be

Not all unworthy of the world; he casts

Forth from him, never to resume again,

Veiled nameless things, frauds of the unfilled heart,

Fantastic pleasures, delicate sadnesses,

The lurid, and the curious, and the occult,

Coward sleights and shifts, the manners of the slave,

And long unnatural uses of dim life.

Hence with you! Robes of angels touch these heights

Blown by pure winds and I lay hold upon them.

Here is a perfect bell of purple heath,

Made for the sky to gaze at reverently,

As faultless as itself, and holding light,

Glad air and silence in its slender dome;

Small, but a needful moment in the sum

Of God’s full joy—the abyss of ecstasy

O’er which we hang as the bright bow of foam

Above the never-filled receptacle

Hangs seven-hued where the endless cataract leaps.

O now I guess why you have summoned me,

Headlands and heights, to your companionship;

Confess that I this day am needful to you!

The heavens were loaded with great light, the winds

Brought you calm summer from a hundred fields,

All night the stars had pricked you to desire,

The imminent joy at its full season flowered,

There was a consummation, the broad wave

Toppled and fell. And had ye voice for this?

Sufficient song to unburden the urged breast?

A pastoral pipe to play? a lyre to touch?

The brightening glory of the heath and gorse

Could not appease your passion, nor the cry

Of this wild bird that flits from bush to bush.

Me therefore you required, a voice for song,

A pastoral pipe to play, a lyre to touch,

I recognize your bliss to find me here;

The sky at morning when the sun upleaps

Demands her atom of intense melody,

Her point of quivering passion and delight,

And will not let the lark’s heart be at ease.

Take me, the brain with various, subtile fold,

The breast that knows swift joy, the vocal lips;

I yield you here the cunning instrument

Between your knees; now let the plectrum fall!