Yet happier, in my judgment, 

 The wandering Herbalist, who, clear alike 

 From vain, and that worse evil, vexing thoughts, 

 ****** peeps round 

 For some fair floweret of the hills, or plant 

 Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for, wins 

 Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won. 

 Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound, 

 By soul-engrossing instinct driven along, 

 Through wood or open field, the harmless man 

 Departs, intent upon his onward quest. 



Wordsworth. 



