When I am fretted to that wayward mood
Which urgeth me to shun the haunts of man
For serious silence and strict solitude,—
That passion spent, such solace as I can
(For instant loss of friends—from whom my rude,
Strange melancholy parts me) I take; and scan—
Half glad, half sad—wise Nature in her plan
And nice completions; and long time brood
Deeply and awfully, till some small theme
Or vast—the Robin's trill; the murmuring
Of mingling springs; the rushing of a stream,
Rapid and rough—or winds on their strong wing,
Wins me from myself, to love society,
Which I had loathed and left only from love's satiety.