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Poem by William Wordsworth

One who was suffering tumult in his soul,

Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer,

Went forth, his course surrendering to the care

Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl

Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;

While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear

The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,

And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl

As if the sun were not. He raised his eye

Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear

Large space (‘mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky,

An azure disc, shield of Tranquillity;

Invisible, unlooked-for, minister

Of providential goodness ever nigh!

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