This small abiding-place of many men, A termination, and a last retreat, A centre, come from wheresoe’er you will, A whole without dependence or defect, Made for itself; and happy in itself, 150 Perfect Contentment, Unity entire. Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,[361] When hitherward we journeyed, side by side, Through bursts of sunshine and through flying showers, Paced the long Vales--how long they were--and yet 155 How fast that length of way was left behind, Wensley’s rich Vale and Sedbergh’s naked heights. The frosty wind, as if to make amends For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, And drove us onward like two ships at sea, 160 Or like two birds, companions in mid air, Parted and re-united by the blast. Stern was the face of Nature. We rejoiced In that stern countenance, for our souls thence drew A feeling of their strength. The naked trees, 165 The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared To question us. “Whence come ye? to what end?” They seemed to say; “What would ye,” said the shower, “Wild wanderers, whither through my dark domain?” The sunbeam said, “Be happy.” When this Vale 170 We entered, bright and solemn was the sky That faced us with a passionate welcoming, And led us to our threshold. Daylight failed Insensibly, and round us gently fell Composing darkness, with a quiet load 175 Of full contentment, in a little shed Disturbed, uneasy in itself as seemed, And wondering at its new inhabitants. It loves us now, this Vale so beautiful Begins to love us! By a sullen storm, 180 Two months unwearied of severest storm, It put the temper of our minds to proof, And found us faithful through the gloom, and heard The Poet mutter his prelusive songs With cheerful heart, an unknown voice of joy, 185 Among the silence of the woods and hills; Silent to any gladsomeness of sound With all their Shepherds. But the gates of Spring Are opened. Churlish Winter hath given leave That she should entertain for this one day, 190 Perhaps for many genial days to come, His guests, and make them jocund. They are pleased, But most of all the Birds that haunt the flood With the mild summons; inmates though they be Of winter’s household, they keep festival 195 This day, who drooped, or seemed to droop, so long; They shew their pleasure, and shall I do less? Happiest of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, Mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, 200 One of a mighty multitude, whose way Is a perpetual harmony, and dance