There comes a blinding cloud of rain
And blots all waymarks out again;
Darkness comes on, and it is night,
And suddenly before my sight

Something breaks off the memory quite.

Again and yet again it calls,

That noise of streaming waterfalls ;-
What does it matter, wind or rain?
A few steps bring me there again,
And I shall know it sure and plain.

And passing that, what came the next
Is somewhat to my sense perplext ;
But after no long while our feet

Were on a down whose turf made flee

The miles, with thyme and eyebright sweet.

The white clouds in the clear blue sky!

Why do the dull dark days go by,

And heavy toils chain down, and care,
While all that open noon is there,

The thistledown upon the air?

The careless speech, the sunny hours,
The untired limbs,-and all are ours.

Is it not strange that we who knew,
Meet not more often to renew

The joys so easily that grew?

And from those grassy slopes, I know

A deep and hollow wood below

We entered, but beyond no more

Can I recall

these paths of yore

Meseems some wave has here swept o'er.

I know that at the end of all

There was another waterfall :
But this one from an awful height,

A wonderful and far-famed sight

Fell roaring down and lost in night.

This was our pilgrimage's goal;

Not far, for twas a morning's stroll

But if it still be there I doubt,

So many years have blotted out

The paths and country all about.

This moment must I seize to seek,
Or all may vanish as I speak ;
So many a day, so many a year
Of fruitless wishes hovering near,
While yet the very scene is here.

Still I am here-what binds me fast?

Another vision too is cast

Before me, of a field full-blown

I wandered into once alone,

And ever since its place is gone.

It lies high up the meadow land,
All round it other meadows stand,
No landmark shows it-unaware
I entered one cool evening there
Through the grey grasses tall and fair,

Rustling around my knees to pass;
But tall amid the flowering grass

Stood pale rare flowers, long sought unseen,

Orchis, day-lily, and helleborine,

And others crowding through the green.

They vanished with the setting sun,
Before I stooped to gather one;
Nor will they reappear; but still
I wander on with dreaming will,
To find another western hill.

But this was far-so far-away,
I reached it but at close of day,
And many a hill which now is lost
I rounded tired and travel-tost,
And many a rivulet I crost.

Till suddenly, I know not how,

I came out on the purple brow,

All mantled with the heather hue;

And mid the bracken-gold I knew

One straight stalk where the moonwort grew.

But, facing full, the setting sun
Sank down again, and all was done;

Yet in that moment's russet glow

I caught blue glimpses far below
That seemed like fairy-land to show.

And as I trod the lonely ground,

So deep a sense of peace breathed round,

I seemed the borderland to press

Of some enchanted wilderness

Springing in unknown loveliness.

Could I once more that summit win,
It seems as if there would begin
A golden way on every side,

Stretching into the moorland wide,
Irradiate and glorified.

But when I ponder on the quest,
All things are difficult at best ;

Right out of mind the way has past,

And if I find it at the last,

The evening will be closing fast.

Therefore at least it would be wise
At earliest daylight to arise,
And start; then if good hap attend,
I might have there, ere daylight end,
Some hours of afternoon to spend.