Oer bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way, And swims or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies.
Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom or summers rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me; from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of Natures works, to me expungd and razd, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.