The Old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream

Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;

And the whole Body of the man did seem

Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

Or like a Man from some far region sent;

To give me human strength, and strong admonishment.

My former thoughts return'd: the fear that kills;

The hope that is unwilling to be fed;

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;

And mighty Poets in their misery dead.

And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said,

My question eagerly did I renew,

"How is it that you live, and what is it

you do?"

He with a smile did then his words repeat;

And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide

He travelled; stirring thus about his feet

The waters of the Ponds where they abide.
"Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”

While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The Old Man's shape, and speech, all troubled me:
In my mind's eye I seem'd to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,

Wandering about alone and silently.

While I these thoughts within myself pursued,

He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Chearfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and, when he ended,
I could have laugh'd myself to scorn, to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.

“God,” said I, "be my help and stay secure;

I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor.”

SONNET S.