‘Proceeding from a source of untaught things’
(_Prelude_ xiii. 310)
HERE is Appledore; over there is Romney Marsh. The sky has partly
cleared after heavy, south-westerly rain. On the horizon where the sea
lies the clouds are in a line, and the air is so clear that their edges
are sharp against the blue. Nearer to me they are slowly dissolving,
re-forming, and moving eastwards, and their shadows are crossing the wide
grassy plain on which in the distance Lydd Church is just discernible. I
can report something of those greys and that azure, but the best part of
what is before me will not outline itself to me. Still less can I shape
it in speech. Necessity, majestic inevitable movement, the folly of heat
and hurry, all this emerges and again is blended in the simple unity of
transcendent loveliness. But beyond there is something so close, so
precious! and yet elusive of every effort to grasp it.
She came to meet me from the line
Where lies the ocean miles away;
And now she’s close; she must be mine:
I wait the word that she must say.
The magic word is not for me:
The vision fades, and far and near
The west wind stirs the grassy sea
In whispers to the watching ear.