Greatly, indeed, have they erred, who have imagined him as cold, or even as by nature tranquil. "What strange workings," writes one from Rydal Mount when the poet was in his sixty-ninth year,--"what strange workings are there in his great mind! How fearfully strong are all his feelings and affections! If his intellect had been less powerful they must have destroyed him long ago." Such, in fact, was the impression which he gave to those who knew him best throughout life. The look of premature age, which De Quincey insists on; the furrowed and rugged countenance, the brooding intensity of the eye, the bursts of anger at the report of evil doings, the lonely and violent roamings over the mountains,--all told of a strong absorption and a smothered fire. His own description of himself (for such we must probably hold it to be) in his _Imitation of the Castle of Indolence_, unexpected as it is by the ordinary reader, carries for those who knew him the stamp of truth. Full many a time, upon a stormy night, His voice came to us from the neighbouring height: Oft did we see him driving full in view At mid-day when the sun was shining bright; What ill was on him, what he had to do, A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. Ah! Piteous sight it was to see this Man When he came back to us, a withered flower,-- Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. Down would he sit; and without strength or power Look at the common grass from hour to hour: And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Whenever from our valley he withdrew; For happier soul no living creature has Than he had, being here the long day through. Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong: But Verse was what he had been wedded to; And his own mind did like a tempest strong Come to him thus, and drove the weary wight along.