length, and nearly in
the middle of the festoon, in the deepest valley of the waves that ran
parallel to each other, the stream shot from the rows of icicles in
irregular fits of strength, and with a body of water that varied every
moment. Sometimes the stream shot into the bason in one continued
current; sometimes it was interrupted almost in the midst of its fall,
and was blown towards part of the waterfall at no great distance from
our feet like the heaviest thunder shower. In such a situation you
have at every moment a feeling of the presence of the sky. Large
fleecy clouds drove over our heads above the rush of the water, and
the sky appeared of a blue more than usually brilliant. The rocks on
each side, which, joining with the side of this cave, formed the vista
of the brook, were chequered with three diminutive waterfalls, or
rather courses of water. Each of these was a miniature of all that
summer and winter can produce of delicate beauty. The rock in the
centre of the falls, where the water was most abundant, a deep black,
the adjoining parts yellow, white, purple, and dove colour, covered
with water--plants of the most vivid green, and hung with streaming
icicles, that in some places seem to conceal the verdure of the plants
and the violet and yellow variegation of the rocks; and in some places
render the colours more brilliant. I cannot express to you the
enchanting effect produced by this Arabian scene of colour as the wind
blew aside the great waterfall behind which we stood, and alternately
hid and revealed each of these fairy cataracts in irregular
succession, or displayed them with various gradations of distinctness
as the intervening spray was thickened or dispersed. What a scene too
in summer! In the luxury of our imagination we could not help feeding
upon the pleasure which this cave, in the heat of a July noon, would
spread through a frame exquisitely sensible. That huge rock on the
right, the bank winding round on the left with all its living foliage,
and the breeze stealing up the valley, and bedewing the cavern with
the freshest imaginable spray. And then the murmur of the water, the
quiet, the seclusion, and a long summer day."

Ed.

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT:

[Footnote A: This is a fragment of 'The Recluse', ll. 152-167; but it
was originally published in the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth' by his nephew
(1851).--Ed.]

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