Most melancholy at that time, O Friend!
Were my day-thoughts, my nights were miserable;
Through months, through years, long after the last beat
Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep
To me came rarely charged with natural gifts,
Such ghastly Visions had I of despair
And tyranny, and implements of death,
And innocent victims sinking under fear,
And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer,
Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds
For sacrifice, and struggling with forced mirth
And levity in dungeons where the dust
Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the scene
Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled me
In long orations which I strove to plead
Before unjust tribunals -- with a voice
Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense
Death-like of treacherous desertion, felt
In the last place of refuge, my own soul.
--William Wordsworth
from The Prelude, Book Tenth
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