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"There was a boy ye knew him well, ye rocks
And islands of Winander & ye green
Peninsulas of Esthwaite many a time
When the stars began
To move along the edges of the hills
Rising or setting would he stand alone
Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lakes
And through his fingers woven in one close knot
Blow mimic hootings to the silent owls
And bid them answer him. And they would shout
Across the wat'ry vale & shout again
Responsive to my call with tremulous sobs
And long halloos & screams & echoes loud
Redoubled & redoubled a wild scene
Of mirth & jocund din. And when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked my skill
Then, often, in that silence while I hung
Listening a sudden shock of mild surprize
Would carry far into my heart the voice
Of mountain torrents: or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into my mind
With all its solemn imagery its rocks
Its woods & that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake . . ."
William Wordsworth
