The Nympholept

A poem by Alan Seeger (1888-1916)

There was a boy — not above childish fears —

With steps that faltered now and straining ears,

Timid, irresolute, yet dauntless still,

Who one bright dawn, when each remotest hill

Stood sharp and clear in Heaven’s unclouded blue

And all Earth shimmered with fresh-beaded dew,

Risen in the first beams of the gladdening sun,

Walked up into the mountains. One by one

Each towering trunk beneath his sturdy stride

Fell back, and ever wider and more wide

The boundless prospect opened. Long he strayed,

From dawn till the last trace of slanting shade

Had vanished from the canyons, and, dismayed

At that far length to which his path had led,

He paused — at such a height where overhead

The clouds hung close, the air came thin and chill,

And all was hushed and calm and very still,

Save, from abysmal gorges, where the sound

Of tumbling waters rose, and all around

The pines, by those keen upper currents blown,

Muttered in multitudinous monotone.

Here, with the wind in lovely locks laid bare,

With arms oft raised in dedicative prayer,

Lost in mute rapture and adoring wonder,

He stood, till the far noise of noontide thunder,

Rolled down upon the muffled harmonies

Of wind and waterfall and whispering trees,

Made loneliness more lone. Some Panic fear

Would seize him then, as they who seemed to hear

In Tracian valleys or Thessalian woods

The god’s hallooing wake the leafy solitudes;

I think it was the same: some piercing sense

Of Deity’s pervasive immanence,

The Life that visible Nature doth indwell

Grown great and near and all but palpable . . .

He might not linger, but with winged strides

Like one pursued, fled down the mountain-sides —

Down the long ridge that edged the steep ravine,

By glade and flowery lawn and upland green,

And never paused nor felt assured again

But where the grassy foothills opened. Then,

While shadows lengthened on the plain below

And the sun vanished and the sunset-glow

Looked back upon the world with fervid eye

Through the barred windows of the western sky,

Homeward he fared, while many a look behind

Showed the receding ranges dim-outlined,

Highland and hollow where his path had lain,

Veiled in deep purple of the mountain rain.

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• To Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart From the South-West Coast Or Cumberland 1811 by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• To Joanna by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• To A Young Lady Who Had Been Reproached For Taking Long Walks In The Country by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• To a Sky-Lark by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• ‘Tis Said, That Some Have Died For Love by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Vaudois by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Two Thieves; Or, The Last Stage Of Avarice by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Two April Mornings by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Thorn by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Tables Turned by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Sun Has Long Been Set by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Stars Are Mansions Built By Nature’s Hand by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Sparrow’s Nest by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Simplon Pass by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth
• The Shepherd, Looking Eastward, Softly Said by William Wordsworth by William Wordsworth

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