As the black storm upon the mountain top
Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so
That huge fermenting mass of human-kind
Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief,
To single forms and objects, whence they draw,
For feeling and contemplative regard,
More than inherent liveliness and power.
How oft, amid those overflowing streets,
Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said
Unto myself, "The face of every one
That passes by me is a mystery!"
Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed
By thoughts of what and whither, when and how,
Until the shapes before my eyes became
A second-sight procession, such as glides
Over still mountains, or appears in dreams;
And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond
The reach of common indication, lost
Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten
Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare)
Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face,
Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest
Wearing a written paper, to explain
His story, whence he came, and who he was.
Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/219
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
BOOK VII.]
RESIDENCE IN LONDON.
197
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f1/The_Prelude%2C_Wordsworth%2C_1850.djvu/page219-1024px-The_Prelude%2C_Wordsworth%2C_1850.djvu.jpg)