One who was suffering tumult in his soul
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer,
Went forth—his course surrendering to the care
Of fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl
Insiduously, untimely thunders growl;
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear
The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,
And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl
As if the sun were not. He raised his eye
Soul-smitten; for, the instant did appear
Large space (‘mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky,
An azure disc-shield of Tranquility;
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister
Of providential goodness ever night!
— William Wordsworth