This is one of the passages which the lover of Wordsworth, quotes,
perhaps, with some apprehension; not knowing how far it carries into
the hearts of others its affecting power; how vividly it calls up
before them that mood of desolate loneliness when the whole vision
of human love and joy hangs like a mirage in the air, and only when
it seems irrecoverably distant seems also intolerably dear. But,
however this particular passage may impress the reader, it is not
hard to illustrate by abundant references the potent originality of
Wordsworth's outlook on the external world.
There was indeed no aspect of Nature, however often depicted, in
which his seeing eye could not discern some unnoted quality; there
was no mood to which nature gave birth in the mind of man from which
his meditation could not disengage some element which threw light on
our inner being. How often has the approach of evening been described!
And how mysterious is its solemnizing power! Yet it was reserved for
Wordsworth in his sonnet "Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful
hour," to draw out a characteristic of that grey waning light which
half explains to us its sombre and pervading charm.
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