Classic Poem

(in winter)

I stood upon a rock: with eager haste
I caught the first glance of the wished for view;
Below me smooth as glass the water lay
And black as ink; the wind swept from the hills,
And through the leafless woods it whistled shrill;
Sending the leaves with which the path was strewn
Into the air, like to the whirlwind when
It drives the sand in columns to the sky
In dry Sahara. Over the dark lake,
From out the watery bed the bold screes rose,
On whose bare sides no grass, nor any flower,
Nor any vegetation met the eye,
But bowed and stunted trees were scattered o'er.
There as I gazed the mist upon the tops,
Which long had sat and crowned those lonely hills,
Crept silently and slow towards the lake,
Crept like a spirit gliding down its sides.
O'er Wastdale Head Great Gable proudly rose,
The summit standing bare against the sky,
The mist still moving slowly from the top.
The sky grew darker, and soon heavy clouds
Swept o'er the lake as if in eager chase.
The wind sobbed loudly, and the tall trees bent
Beneath its blasts, the lake so very black
Grew blacker still as if to mock the sky.
Large raindrops fell, and each one as it dropt
Made dimples in the lake. The hills were hid
Behind large clouds. I turned and left it then.