Like clouds or streams we wandered on at will,
Three glorious days, till, near our journey's end,
As down the moorland road we straight did wend,
To Wordsworth's " Inversneyd, " talking to kill
The cold and cheerless drizzle in the air,
'Bove me I saw, at pointing of my friend,
An old Fort like a ghost upon the hill,
Stare in blank misery through the blinding rain;
So human-like it seemed in its despair —
So stunned with grief — long gazed at it we twain
Weary and damp we reached our poor abode;
I, warmly seated in the chimney-nook,
Still saw that old Fort o'er the moorland road
Stare through the rain with strange woe-wildered look.