Folly, vice, Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress, And all the strife of singularity, 580 Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense-- Of these, and of the living shapes they wear, There is no end.

Such candidates for regard, Although well pleased to be where they were found, I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize, 585 Nor made unto myself a secret boast Of reading them with quick and curious eye; But, as a common produce, things that are To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them Such willing note, as, on some errand bound 590 That asks not speed, a Traveller might bestow On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach, Or daisies swarming through the fields of June.
But foolishness and madness in parade, Though most at home in this their dear domain, 595 Are scattered everywhere, no rarities, Even to the rudest novice of the Schools.
Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keep In memory, those individual sights Of courage, or integrity, or truth, 600 Or tenderness, which there, set off by foil, Appeared more touching.

One will I select; A Father--for he bore that sacred name-- Him saw I, sitting in an open square, Upon a corner-stone of that low wall, 605 Wherein were fixed the iron pales that fenced A spacious grass-plot; there, in silence, sate This One Man, with a sickly babe outstretched Upon his knee, whom he had thither brought For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher air.

610 Of those who passed, and me who looked at him, He took no heed; but in his brawny arms (The Artificer was to the elbow bare, And from his work this moment had been stolen) He held the child, and, bending over it, 615 As if he were afraid both of the sun And of the air, which he had come to seek, Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable.
As the black storm upon the mountain top Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so 620 That huge fermenting mass of human-kind Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief, To single forms and objects, whence they draw, For feeling and contemplative regard, More than inherent liveliness and power.

625 How oft, amid those overflowing streets, Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said Unto myself, "The face of every one That passes by me is a mystery!" Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed 630 By thoughts of what and whither, when and how, Until the shapes before my eyes became A second-sight procession, such as glides Over still mountains, or appears in dreams; And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond 635 The reach of common indication, lost Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare) Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face, Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest 640 Wearing a written paper, to explain His story, whence he came, and who he was.
Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round As with the might of waters; an apt type This label seemed of the utmost we can know, 645 Both of ourselves and of the universe; And, on the shape of that unmoving man, His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed, As if admonished from another world.
Though reared upon the base of outward things, 650 Structures like these the excited spirit mainly Builds for herself; scenes different there are, Full-formed, that take, with small internal help, Possession of the faculties,--the peace That comes with night; the deep solemnity 655 Of nature's intermediate hours of rest, When the great tide of human life stands still; The business of the day to come, unborn, Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave; The blended calmness of the heavens and earth, 660 Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and sounds Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours Of winter evenings, when unwholesome rains Are falling hard, with people yet astir, The feeble salutation from the voice 665 Of some unhappy woman, now and then Heard as we pass, when no one looks about, Nothing is listened to.